


Falling for the First Time

by NoBrandHero



Series: All in Good Time [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family, Gen, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Self-Hatred, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-25 18:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6206650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoBrandHero/pseuds/NoBrandHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The game is over, Alpha Earth resets to 2009, and Dirk's bro doesn't live up to expectations. The movie director who appears so chill and stoic in interviews is actually a talkative, needy dweeb like his teenage counterpart. It's not a bad thing, as far as Dirk's concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is another entry in my "[S] Game Over and all the ensuing retcon shenanigans never happened" post-game AU. There will be nods to the other story and I'm purposefully mimicking some of its structure, but overall this fic is intended as an independent standalone, so the other entry in the series is supplemental reading.
> 
> (But hey, if you're in the market for Davesprite-related angst and Momlonde trying super hard to be a doting mother to her newly discovered depressed son, [Second Best](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4075150) might be up your alley.)

You should have done more in the final battle. You were supposed to play the puppet master who orchestrated the other players into their strongest roles and paved the way to victory, but at the end of the day you were just another cog in the machinery.

If you could have just overcome the overwhelming barrage of unexpected conflicts, if you could have dodged the _necessity_ of teamwork just to survive, maybe you could have led your friends to a cleaner victory. There were injuries, there was a casualty, and it took far longer than it should, but you weren't capable enough to do better with the time and resources you had available.

You probably should take comfort in the fact that you beat the game at all. You should be proud of your friends.

You still don't feel worthy to stand in front of the endgame door with them when you failed to live up to your potential as an expert manipulator when it really mattered.

Nah, the only time your manipulation shines is when you're _hurting_ your friends, not saving them.

You haven't been able to look Jake in the eye, but it doesn't really matter when he won't look your direction either. Whatever's beyond this door, you just hope it lets you take a break from your awkward mistakes.

You glance over your shoulder at Davesprite, but he's keeping his distance from the main group. You guess you can't blame him. You probably shouldn't bug him if he's feeling anti-social after all the shit that went down. You don't even know how anyone else is putting on cheer.

Jane, John, and the troll with no volume control reach for the knob to the endgame door in tandem. No one's ascertained what's waiting for you on the other side, but anything is better than rotting in Sburb for another half a year.

As a white light envelopes you, not even your shades can save you from cringing in the brightness.

* * *

A blue sky stretches overhead, with no sign of Skaia or any of the quest planets amidst the normal, non-prophetic clouds. You're standing on the roof of your apartment building, but you're not on LOTAK and you're not back in the middle of the ocean either. Buildings spread out in front of you as far as the eye can see and dark birds flock like the seagulls used to.

Your ears are assaulted by echoes you've only heard in movies before: car horns, tires on pavement, the wind squeezing between buildings...

TT: Turn your head already. I can't fucking see.  
TT: Hal?  
TT: What the hell do you mean? Are you back in the glasses?  
TT: Yeah. I guess sprites aren't allowed as-is in the real world.  
TT: Sorry, bro.  
TT: We both know you're only sorry that I'm your responsibility again, but whatever.  
TT: I can deal.  
TT: Lack of human/troll emotions gets in the way of disappointment, even if I remember the sensation as a thing that once existed within my grasp. That's one feeling I won't fucking miss, actually.  
TT: Seriously though, get moving. Lounging on the roof ain't cool under the best of circumstances, let alone when we need to do recon on our new surroundings.  
TT: Freezing up in shock is just part of the normal physical experience, dude.

All the same, he's right. Wherever you are, you need to locate your friends and make sure the game hasn't transplanted you into a new danger zone.

You stumble and almost fall in the attempt to turn a full circle. Your limbs aren't cooperating without far more concentration than you've ever had to devote to standing. It's like you're on drugs or half-asleep, except your brain is in peak condition.

What the hell is wrong with your body? Your perfectly honed balance has never been this off, but you just can't find your usual center of gravity and your limbs feel awkward. Your muscles aren't as toned as they should be either, which might explain why your weight is so much lighter. And as you take in your surroundings... Are you fucking shorter?

You pull out a phone from your sylladex and turn on the inner camera so you can get a look at yourself on the screen: Your face has lost most of its sharpness, giving way instead to undeveloped and rounder pre-teen features. By your best guess, you're probably twelve or thirteen years old again.

What kind of bullshit is this? Going through puberty all over again is bad enough, but you didn't even hit your growth spurt until you were fifteen.

The door to the roof crashes open. "Dirk?"

Your attention snaps away from your phone. You've heard that voice a million times before on old TV interviews and Blu-ray commentaries, but never in person. You've been around a similar voice recently, but this one has years of maturity behind it.

Your bro staggers onto the roof, disheveled and breathing heavily as if he's run a long ways at top speed. That's early 2010-era Dave Strider if you ever saw him: aviators, T-shirt and jeans, inhumanly white skin like all ectoclones have... He's only in his mid-thirties, just before he amps up into his more political films, but he looks ancient compared to the Dave you're used to.

Your breath catches. This has to be a hallucination or some kind of sick joke. Your bro is dead and you're never going to meet him; you accepted that long ago.

Bro lets the door fall shut behind him, staring straight at you for what feels like an eternity. "You okay, kid?" he says, approaching slowly as if he expects you to bolt if he makes a sudden movement. "How the hell did you get here?"

This is a scenario you've played over and over in your head, despite knowing it could never happen, but now that it's somehow more than a daydream, you don't actually know what the fuck to do.

You have so much to tell him, all these awesome first impressions plotted out to choose from, and you fumble to remember any of it. You don't even know if he'll be half as cool in reality compared to the bro in your imagination where you had full creative control. What if he's as anti-social and cruel as Dave's bro? For all you know, he never even _wanted_ to meet you.

You struggle for your voice and mumble an unemotional reply of, "We finished the game."

He goes still. "Holy shit," he says, his face a perfect blank with his eyes hidden behind his signature Stiller shades. "Not gonna lie, kid, I think that's just about the coolest thing I ever heard get said."

Without any input from you, your mouth quirks into a small smile, both at the praise and at Bro's mild Southern accent -- it's often buried under a SoCal accent in his interviews, but every once in a while it slips through in a mirror of the accent you heard from Dave.

Relief washes over you as Bro grins back. "Rose always said you'd be a badass," he says and holds a fist out.

You meet him for a fistbump and you have never felt so elated in your fucking life, not even compared to building your first functional robot or your first kiss with Jake or the time you first traded stories with Dave. The only damper is the harsh whisper in the back of your mind that it's only a matter of time before you fuck this up too.

"So what actually went down?" Bro asks. "Five minutes ago I was all old and shit and bleeding out like a carton of tomato juice an old hag stomped on."

Points to your bro for the metaphor and all, but you try not to visualize that. It conflicts too much with your image of Bro dying after one clean blow like a badass. "It looks like the game may have reset shit, but I haven't been able to investigate much." You gesture at the roof. "I just woke up here after we opened the endgame door."

"Guess I can't complain too hard." Bro shrugs, turning in place to survey the horizon. "Damn, didn't think I'd see Houston looking like this again," he murmurs.

"This is Houston?" Of course this has to be Houston, and you know that, and he knows that you know that. Asking the obvious is just ironic. Not that you have any guarantee that Sburb didn't dump your apartment in Hong Kong.

"You've never seen this view in the first place, huh?" Bro asks, grinning over his shoulder at you.

You shake your head. All of the buildings break down and crumble beneath the water hundreds of years from now, all except the structure and top floor of the apartment below you. "It was just ocean."

Bro's smile fades back into his stoic non-expression. "Hey." He jerks a thumb at the stairs. "Let's grab some air conditioning and figure out what went down in style and comfort."

* * *

It's your apartment except... not. The general layout is the same, but the decor and furniture has been swapped out. It's kind of swanky now. You wonder if Bro left crappier furniture for you because it would survive the apocalypse better than a leather couch or if he knew "rich & fancy" ain't your style.

"Make yourself at home." Bro pats the back of the couch as he passes it. "I'm not sure what the hell we're doing in Houston, but it's quieter than the LA condo, so who cares really?" He leans back against the kitchen counter, pulling an ancient model of iPhone out of his sylladex. "I'm gonna figure out when the fuck we landed."

The couch makes a horrendous squeak as it shifts under your weight. Thank fuck Bro changed this place up before you inherited it. You shift around on your knees, squeaking all the way, and rest your elbows on the back of the couch to watch Bro check his phone. "What's the damage?" you ask.

"April thirteenth, 2009," Bro says with a frown as he stares at the screen. He raises his head. "I don't remember any lottery numbers from 2009, do you?"

You shrug. You were diligent in your studies of Bro's era, but the lottery wasn't in a field you found very relevant to your interests.

So this is Jane's thirteenth birthday. (And John's too, technically, off in another universe.) Does that make you thirteen and four months, if your birthday still sits at December third? That fits your physical state anyway. Christ, why does Bro have to see you at the worst stage of your development? You're all lanky and skinny and shit. Not that he knows what he's missing, but that's almost worse.

"What the hell's so special about 2009?" Bro murmurs to himself, still tapping at his touchscreen. "I mean, besides the release of Paul Blart: Mall Cop."

You both jump and Bro nearly drops his phone as it blares out a distorted rendition of "Peanut Butter Jelly Time." Your experience with cell phones is limited, but you're certain this is the most obnoxious-yet-mainstream ringtone in existence. All told, the irony is off the charts. You'd expect nothing less from your bro.

He seems less impressed with his own genius, as he juggles the phone back into a steady grip and holds it at a distance. "Uh..." He cringes at the screen. "Yeah, sorry, gotta take this." He cuts off the ringtone and puts the phone to his ear before you can even reply. "Yo, Rose, I found the kid where you said he'd be, so now we're kinda busy trying to unlock the mysteries of the universe here, no big deal. Cool to hear your voice again, though."

It's not exactly a surprise that Roxy's mom is safe and alive, given the circumstances, but a tension still eases from your chest.

You never thought you'd have any personal investment in the life or death of Rose Lalonde. No offense to her or anything -- you definitely cared that Roxy cared -- but you had no personal stakes involved. Having met a teen Rose recently, you give a few more shits about her well-being than you realized.

"Old lady English? No shit?" Bro says, cracking a grin. "Well, damn, it's like some kind of zombie reunion party going down."

Jade English is alive too? She was dead long before 2009, though. Does that mean John Crocker somehow survived his meteor strike or is Jade an anomaly? Why can't Bro put the damn phone on speaker if Rose is passing down all these wild reveals?

You inch off the couch and cringe when it squeaks against your weight, but Bro keeps his attention on the phone as you creep closer. You can just barely hear a feminine voice from the receiver, but the words are still garbled from this distance.

"I should break out the music," Bro says. "The sick rap version of 'The Monster Mash.' Start a beat for me, Lalon-" His voice cuts off abruptly and he frowns. "Of course I brought him inside." He waves a hand dismissively, as if his sister can see it. "Nah, I've got all that shit under control. He's a teenager, so I skipped all the hard parts." He scowls more the longer he's silent. "Okay, have you ever considered, just, _pretending_ to have faith in my ability?" he says, leaning an arm against the kitchenette counter.

TT: Stop staring.  
TT: What else am I supposed to fucking do here?  
TT: Well, shit, let me just calculate your options, because only a computer superbrain could possibly figure that out. For starters, you might try not looking like a fucking creeper less than ten minutes after meeting our bro.

Bro hasn't noticed your spying, you're pretty certain, but you still flashstep back to the couch out of a sense of Auto-Responder-induced paranoia and guilt. You're probably underestimating your bro's observational skills anyway.

Bro deserves this moment with his sister, what with how their last memories together involved a huge bitch of a sea troll and copious amounts of martyrdom, but it's killing you that he's standing _right there_ and still out of reach. You kind of expected Bro to keep a chill distance, but shouldn't his sister give a few shits about the teenager who just showed up in her abode?

 _Is_ Roxy even home in New York? Why is her mom ignoring her to call your bro? You've been too distracted by your guardian's revival to even confirm that Jane, Roxy, and Jake were delivered home safely like you were.

You tap into Pesterchum on your shades. Jane's missing from your chum list -- with any luck, that's because she's the only one raised to socialize properly and log out of her damn chat service when reuniting with long-lost family -- but Roxy's online. That's not a guarantee of jackshit, but it's something. Jake's online too, but... You'll start with Roxy and worry about how to approach him later.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] \--

TT: Rox?  
TG: DIRK??  
TG: DID U ALSO THE THING  
TG: THE THING  
TG: WITH THE PARENTS  
TG: DIRK OMG  
TT: So you found your mom okay?  
TG: yesssss am i allowed to squee??  
TT: No. Being thirteen again cancels out the squee.  
TG: too bad!!! imma squee anyway  
TG: SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEE  
TG: EEEEEEEEEEE  
TG: EEEeeeeee ok im done  
TG: :DDDDD  
TT: I guess you deserved a cliche cry of joy anyway.  
TT: You're in New York, right?  
TG: yeah!!!! that means youre in houston??  
TG: w/ ur bro????  
TT: Yeah. I'm in Houston with my bro.  
TT: It's  
TT: Just figured I should touch base with the rest of you and make sure you're okay.  
TG: totes ok and in one piece over here! <3  
TG: my mom is on the phone with some1 tho  
TG: why is she taking so loooong auuuuuggh WE GOTS SO MUCH FAMILY BONDING 2 DO  
TG: WHO EVEN GOTS TIME FOR PHONE CALLS WHEN IM LIKE BOUNCING OFF THE WALLS OVER HERE  
TT: She's talking to my bro, actually. I guess they have catching up to do of their own.  
TT: It's kind of fucking irritating though, so I'll see if I can cause a distraction.  
TG: yes pls do!!

You just need a plan to catch your bro's attention -- and you sure as hell don't trust Hal to handle that right now. You twist around to peer at your bro from over the couch. "Hey, Bro-"

"The kid needs something, bye," Bro says into the phone without even pausing for breath, then hangs up.

Well, that was easy.

TG: thx it worked ur the best <3

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

Bro rests the phone against his chest and tilts his head up, taking a deep breath. "Sorry. She'd probably put some kind of voodoo curse on me if I'd ignored that call." He puts his cell away and hops over the back of the couch to drop next to you. Somehow he manages it without making the leather squeak. "Anyway, sup?"

In retrospect, maybe you should have left him alone, because now you're face-to-face with him and you still don't know what the hell to say. Basic greetings aren't worthy of him but your mind is too busy tying itself in knots to formulate a response with the right balance of genuinely cool and ironically cool. Why didn't you strife on the roof so you could show off your rad sword techniques when you had a chance?

"Dirk?" He reaches over to nudge your chin towards him.

You flinch back, which was not in your plan and is far worse than just blurting a lame hello. Letting an incoming object touch your face means impending harm ninety-nine out of one hundred times, but right now, back in human civilization with your bro, fuck your instincts.

Bro goes still, presumably because you look like a fucking nut. Nice job breaking it, hero. Again. As he pulls away, you wrench your hand out and catch his wrist.

You freeze -- or try to. When did your arm start shaking? Why do you have to suck so hard at socialization just because you grew up isolated from all of mankind? Was grabbing him really the best way to recover from dodging his touch?

His wrist relaxes and he slips out of your loosened grip to rest his hand over yours. "Hey, it's cool, man. You don't have to lay any words on me." He tugs you closer and wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Mind if I talk, though? I'm no fuckin' good with silence."

You go limp against his side, just soaking in his warmth and the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He's alive, he's with you, and you should probably answer him for once. "Knock yourself out, dude."

"Badass." He grins. It has that cocky edge to it that Dave's smile always had, but there's less reluctance to it, as if Bro gives no shits that he's showing an emotion. His grip on your shoulder is comfortingly firm, like a reassurance that this is real and not just a post-game fever dream.

Despite you, life is awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, it's like Second Best's polar opposite! This time we start with fluff and the angst doesn't creep in until later! :D I really didn't mean to make a new series, but after writing Dirk's cameos in Second Best, I couldn't resist exploring his and Roxy's side of the story with grown-up Dave and grown-up Rose.
> 
> Credit where credit's due: I borrowed the title from the Barenaked Ladies song of the same name. Since Second Best is named after the Barenaked Ladies song I most associate with Davesprite, I figured I should keep up the pattern.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm so cool; too bad I'm a loser / I'm so smart; too bad I can't get anything figured out_   
>  _I'm so brave; too bad I'm a baby / I'm so fly; that's probably why it feels just like I'm falling for the first time_
> 
> \- "Falling for the First Time," Barenaked Ladies

You have a new loathing for "Peanut Butter Jelly Time." Bro's phone has probably gone off eight times in one hour and it shows no sign of shutting up.

Bro shows no signs of shutting up either. "Busy," he says into his iPhone. "You know how to text." He ends the call before the other party has a chance to reply. "So anyway." He lounges back, tugging you closer to him. "Rose was like, why the shit are you leaving all that orange soda? And I'm like, dude, ocean water isn't goddamn edible. You know what never expires? Soda pop. What's nutritional and keeps away scurvy? Oranges. Bam. Best post-apocalyptic emergency supplies or what?"

It takes all of your will power to resist clinging to his shirt. "Bro, not that I'm complaining about your rad choice in beverages, because I appreciated the hell out of it," you say, "but I'm obligated to point out that orange soda isn't made with real oranges."

Bro shrugs. "Eh, but they probably inject some of the vitamins, like with white bread or health food gummies."

"They don't," you say flatly. You probably shouldn't start this relationship off by being a know-it-all. "They really, really don't." Too bad you're awful.

"It's peanut butter jelly time!" Bro's phone belts out. You should appreciate that it's distracted Bro from your faux pas, but the volume alone is enough to make you cringe, let alone the danger that you're about to lose his attention.

He unpockets the phone, his thumb already poised for action, but this time he hesitates. "Sorry, I've gotta take this one." He puts the phone to his ear and says, "Yo, Jordan, long time, no see."

You're just close enough to hear a muffled voice on the speaker say, "Where the fuck are you, Strider? We're-" The rest is garbled and too lacking in context to piece together.

Bro's confident demeanor falters with a frown. "The hell are you talking about? I finished that movie years ago."

You facepalm. He hasn't finished "that" movie, because it's 2009 and most of his filmography has yet to be created. Christ, how could your mind neglect such an obvious piece of trivia? Bro was filming in Houston back in April of 2009. The occasion even stands out, since it's the only time he ever set a movie in Texas. Some media historian and SBaHJ expert you are.

Judging by his wince, Bro's suffered the same epiphany you have. "Yeah, so, I'm like really jetlagged, kinda out of it, couldn't sleep well last night, saying all kinds of dumb shit probably." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "The point is, I'll be there in twenty minutes." He lowers the phone, staring at it as if he's waiting for another call.

He's quiet for long enough that you prod him with a hesitant, "Bro?"

He shoots to his feet and the phone disappears into his sylladex. "Hey, this has been cool -- really cool, dude -- but I gotta run 'cos I'm apparently back at the precarious peak of my career and scaling a mountain's hard work, though I don't even remember how far..." He pauses again, a hand still raised to demonstrate the height of this metaphorical mountain. "Anyway, hang on."

He flashsteps away at a speed that amazes even you -- though what else can you expect from a guy who's had a full adult lifespan to perfect his technique? Your head snaps to follow his movement, but he's already gone.

Something in your chest goes heavy that is definitely not your heart because you never had one of those.

It's not even a big deal. He'll be back. You share a time zone and you're sitting in his apartment, so even if he abandons you here, you'll reunite. You don't have an excuse to dwell on the swelling terror of isolation.

Except you don't care if it's irrational; you're not fucking losing track of him now.

You follow after him at your quickest speed, but you'd never catch up if he hadn't gone far. He's just in your old future bedroom, which is redecorated like the rest of the apartment: outfitted to look fancy enough to have guests over or something. He snoops through stacks of papers on his desk and periodically checks a calendar. He's already switched out of his casual duds and into a more work-appropriate suit. Dude always was a show-off in public.

You wait by the door, keeping even your breath quiet.

TT: I'm almost impressed by your continued ability to find new ways of making an ass of yourself. Spying on Bro, Dirk?

You duck back to hide in the shadows of the hallway with your back against the wall. You can't see Bro anymore, but he can't see you either and you won't miss when he leaves from here.

TT: I'm gathering intel.  
TT: Even if that wasn't a flimsy excuse, that's my alley you're sniffing up. Too late, dude, I've already investigated all of those pungent scents. There's some interesting shit. Way too much to pass on.  
TT: I'd give you the human-sized rundown, but I guess you're too busy pretending you can pick up better info by spying on our bro.  
TT: Wait, what the hell did you find?  
TT: There's no way any shit on the 'net actually explains what Sburb just pulled on us.  
TT: You'd be surprised how much gold dust you can find if you sift through enough dirt.  
TT: Everything from this time period's Internet data matches up with my records, save for a few small but significant details. For example, Jade English's robotics company is flourishing and John Crocker had a comedy tour as recently as 2007.  
TT: If anything could be an actual challenge for me, I might consider giving that honorary title to "searching for evidence on the existence of someone who's too secret to have a real presence until 2011," but lucky for you, even Condy can't make me break a sweat. I'm 97.9% certain that she's never been on Earth.  
TT: tl;dr: there is zero evidence that the batterwitch or Sburb ever existed in this timeline.  
TT: We are the sole remaining products of that disaster.  
TT: Sburb seriously just dumped us back on Earth, as if the entire thing never happened? That's how the game ends?  
TT: We don't have enough data to theorize if that's the standard game over or if we unlocked a special ending with all of our fucked up shenanigans -- such as bringing along a player from a doomed timeline -- but here we are anyway.  
TT: Our guardians are alive, the body I shared with that vaguely unsettling yet ripped troll is gone, and you're a tiny twerp again.  
TT: Thanks for the reminder.  
TT: Watch me cry a thousand tears for the loss of a growth spurt I never even got to experience because I migrated to a pair of glasses too young.  
TT: You didn't seem to mind that you're small enough to easily fit into the crook of Bro's arm.  
TT: Looking chill and not at all desperate or needy there, bro.  
TT: He started it.  
TT: It seems you've reverted to thirteen in mentality too.  
TT: His excessive affection does raise the question... When do I get a crack at him?  
TT: You'll fuck this up in your goddamn digital dreams, Hal.

A red blur shoots past your hiding place. You don't even bother to confirm that Bro's disappeared from your room, with evidence that strong on your hands.

You expect a door slam to follow his latest flashstep -- maybe you'll even hear that elusive click of a lock that has never been relevant in your time. Instead it's just silent.

"Fuck." Bro's voice starts quiet, but it rises with each word. "Shit, shit, shit shit _shit._ " The floor scrapes and thuds from sloppy and quick flashsteps. "Kid?" Another thud. " _Dirk?_ "

You step out of the hallway. "Bro?" The word is barely out of your mouth before a blur tackles you into a tight embrace.

"Jesus Christ, could you _not?_ " Bro says. Your face is plastered against his shirt and you can't investigate his pokerface, but his voice is far from its usual flat tone. "Turn my back for two goddamn seconds... You ever actually disappear on me, the 'I told you so's from Rose would rain down for centuries to come."

You'd be lying if you said you weren't enjoying the attention, but you're a damn good liar when you need to be. "Dude?"

He releases you, raising his hands as he backs off. "I'm chill, man. That was totally chill. I'm not freaking out. But don't do that again."

"Noted." You clear your throat. "Sorry."

"It's cool," he says, regaining his composure. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "We gotta bounce like five minutes ago, though."

"What?" Maybe it's just as well you pulled your know-it-all act earlier; it helps balance that you sound so damn clueless the rest of the time. "Dude, you're taking me to filming?"

His mouth twitches into a smirk. "No, dog, I was using the royal 'we' because I'm abandoning your ass all alone in this apartment for twelve hours. C'mon, I was supposed to be on-location over an hour ago." Before you can object, he's hoisted you over his shoulder and flashstepped out of the apartment.

That squeak was definitely his shoes scraping against the floor and not something that came out of your mouth. If he asks, that's your excuse anyway, but he doesn't seem to care about any mysterious yelping noises. He just drops you back on your feet as he hits the elevator button.

The elevator's always been a useless, empty shaft -- if you want to voyage out of your apartment, you have to take the stairs and wind your way down the building's remaining structure by way of careful parkouring. For the first time, the button lights up.

In retrospect, it should have been obvious that you aren't taking any stairs while you're with Bro.

* * *

That's Ben Stiller. You're sharing a room with Ben Stiller. Owen Wilson is still in his dressing room, but you're in the same general vicinity as him because it's 2009 and he isn't dead.

A lot of people aren't dead, like Lucas Anderson the cinematographer, Mason Curtis the gaffer, Anne Liao the boom operator... You could probably name every person set, even if none of them hit as hard as Ben fucking Stiller. They're just a bunch of non-celebrities that no one except you and a handful of other SBaHJ fanatics have any chance of recognizing, but you watched the shit out of every DVD special features and behind-the-scenes ever made.

Even the set defies expectations in-person. The camera can't do proper justice for the JPG effects that come from props made with Bro's patented techniques.

You would have traded your head to stand here for just five seconds, but now that you're here, everything just keeps happening. There are so many goddamn people to keep track of. There's sound everywhere, movement everywhere, potential threats everywhere...

Bro walks among the crowd like it ain't no big deal, all of his concentration on the script in his hand rather than the unknown variables surrounding him. You follow him like a shadow; even knowing he has no intention of leaving you behind, your nonexistent heart clenches with every step he takes away from you.

You catch approaching movement out of the corner of your eye and you spin around, fingers ready to snatch a weapon from your strife specibus. You relax when it's someone you recognize, as if there was any alternative on one of Bro's movie sets. Jordan Carver's the young producer who took on the Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff franchise because no experienced producers would touch it with a twenty foot pole and she doesn't look thrilled right now.

"Ever hear the cliche 'time is money,' Strider?" she calls as she approaches.

Bro glances up from his script and shoots her a cocky smirk. "I'm a firm believer in 'time is dead,' actually, but I came back just to see you, babe," he says, leaning towards her.

She leans back to match him. "Yeeeah, okay, too bad my watch says it's lesbian o'clock." She taps the face of said wristwatch.

He chuckles. "Hey, one of these days I'll stumble on that fabled bicurious hour."

Your skin crawls. Like mother, like son, flirting with the nearest available mate regardless of their orientation...

"Guess I won't have to worry about that if you're going to run late like this," Carver says with an indifferent shrug. Great, apparently he's such a shameless flirt that she's used to it. Maybe he inherited the inappropriate persistence from you. "Anyway, we've got a schedule to stick to, so if you'd get your ass in..." She trails off as her gaze falls on you. "Dave, I know our budget's tight, but you didn't have to take out a second job babysitting."

He nudges your shoulder. "That's my brother."

She glances you over, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, I figured he was that or your bastard son. Less certain why he's here."

"International take your bro to work day," he says.

"Sounds legit and not at all made up on the spot."

He gives her a thumbs up. "You know it, dude."

She mirrors his gesture with the enthusiasm of a middle finger. "Just get your shit together, Strider. We all kinda like having jobs," she says before weaving back into the overwhelming crowd of people that make up the film crew.

"Yeah, I'm totally putting our careers in jeopardy, that's me," Bro mutters once she's out of earshot. He flips through the script and paces back and forth, rarely resting on any given page for longer than two seconds as he grumbles under his breath. "Son of a fuck, why didn't past me take better goddamn notes than this? All the weird shit going on and I never had the foresight to use bookmarks in case my future self came crashing back in time? I guess that means I'm past me now. Christ, this is weird. Maybe this is a hint I should improve my note-taking skills."

You follow him so closely that he almost plows into you on a pivot. "Are you talking to me?"

He raises his head as if he's forgotten you're here and stops mid-step. "Nope, but I can be. What's up?"

"You seem disoriented." Great, now you sound like Hal.

He frowns. "What? No. I'm just facing off against some hella poor planning." He peeks at the script again, flipping to a random page. "Blame my younger dumbass self for not organizing his shit better. How the hell is anyone supposed to match this set to any of these goddamn vaguely described scenes?"

You take a glance at the set to double-check your assumptions before you say, "You're filming the scene where Sweet Bro falls off the stairs into a cake made of feces."

He goes quiet for a moment before facepalming. "Right! Fuck, that was a classic. Can't believe I live in a world where that scene hasn't been immortalized on film yet."

"Yeah, it's a fucking national tragedy that needs corrected, stat," you say with a solemn nod. You almost bite your tongue, but given your surroundings, curiosity gets the better of you. "Is the rumor true that Stiller offered to work with a prop made of literal shit?"

Bro smirks. "He totally did. I couldn't ask for a guy more committed to this role, but I ain't that harsh on my actors." He cocks his head in a careless shrug. "Besides, where would we even find that much human excrement? Was I supposed to send out the interns door-to-door like girl scouts, asking the good citizens of L.A. to take a dump into our collection bucket?"

You muffle a laugh, which prompts Bro to snicker, and before you can help it, you're both cracking up.

He sighs and wipes at his eyes. "So you're pretty familiar with my work."

You straighten to your full height, which would have been a few inches more impressive back when your body was sixteen instead of thirteen. "I'm a goddamn expert. I've watched all of the Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff movies at least one hundred times each."

His mouth twitches. "For serious? Which one's your favorite?"

"Man, that's like forcing me to pick a favorite child."

He nudges your shoulder. "Okay, but pretend this is Sophie's Choice and make with the fav."

You suck on your lower lip as you consider it. It's not that you haven't given the question thought many times in the past, but your answer isn't always the same and you were never under this much pressure to pick a good one. "The third one."

"The chronological third one, the one billed as the third one, or the third one to release to the public?" he asks.

"Third release," you say without missing a beat. "I'll never stop being impressed by how you opened the movie with a cliffhanger ending."

His mouth twitches again and you catch sight of a grin before he replaces his poker face. "Yeah, it's pretty cool." He nods. "Got a favorite character?"

It takes less time to settle on an answer, partly because it's a less difficult question, but mostly because you're getting used to the interrogation. "Writing-wise they're equally genius, but as much as Stiller and Wilson were born for their roles, it's hard to deny that Don Glover really brings Geromy to the next level."

He sighs wistfully. "God fuckin' bless Don. And fuck Dan Harmon for heckling him." He cups his chin. "Though I guess that hasn't happened yet. Is it unethical to warn him? Do we got a guidebook for inadvertent time travel around here?"

"Not really."

He flips through the script again. "Yeah, we'll figure out how to avoid breaking the laws of the universe later." He folds a page over, settling onto the right scene at last, and raises his head. "Yo, Owen!" he calls past you. "Thanks for making me look punctual, man!"

A familiar voice behind you returns the jab with a playful comment that Dave's tardiness inspired the whole crew to drag their feet. Your feet are rooted and your neck is too stiff to check behind you, but it's not like you don't know who it is.

Just when your nerves have settled, Owen Wilson makes his appearance on set.

"Legit though, cool to see you again, dude," Bro says. He catches you by the shoulders and spins you around. "Before I gotta hear another babysitting wisecrack, this is my kid brother. He's cool, a'right?"

Your brain freezes over and you shake hands on auto-pilot. You're shaking hands with Owen fucking Wilson, who is alive, because it's 2009 and you are surrounded by dozens of human beings with thoughts and feelings.

Lord English was less intimidating than this shit.

* * *

Behind-the-scenes featurettes can't even scratch the surface of Bro and his crew at work. You study him in quiet awe as he conducts the cast to overact just the right amount, the lighting guys to overexpose the scene at the most touching moments, and the cinematographer to shakycam it the hell up. It's ironic genius.

It's also fucking exhausting. Is this the infamous state known as jetlag? Culture shock? Any other day, you'd be drinking up this opportunity faster than a can of orange soda, but right now you'd rather be back in your apartment and trading stories with your bro. He's always just out of your grasp here, though at least you can trade fistbumps between takes.

Your sense of time warps. You have no idea how long you've watched the same handful of scenes over and over, but the sun is down by the time it's over and Bro's herding you outside -- it's hard to call it "dark" out, with fifty street lights lining the block and most of the stars missing from the sky.

Bro stops at the curb and raises a hand, waiting for a cab to pass by. "What do you think, was that better or worse than last time?" he asks.

You shrug. "Depends on the editing process."

"Christ, I hope so. It's a fucking pain in the ass to get back into the groove of a project you finished a few decades ago. It's like going to the World Series after you've retired and your football helmet doesn't fit anymore and..." He drops his hand long enough to wipe it over his face. "Why the hell do I even try with the sports metaphors?"

You glance up at him, searching his face for signs of fatigue. "You drained too?"

"Hella." He waves as a cab takes a turn down your block. "You wanna grab sushi? Or there's this great 24-hour burrito place downtown, though Mexican food's less thematically appropriate than wolfing down raw fish in honor of Her Imperial Pain-in-the-Ass's downfall. Wouldn't say no to Texas barbecue though." He lowers his arm as the cab pulls over. "Got any preference here?"

You don't know. You've never eaten any of that, only seen images of it on the Internet and in movies. Everything's so fucking loud in the past and cars smell and even the air hits your lungs with an unfamiliar burn. It's all you can do to shrug again.

Bro considers you for a moment. "Yeah, let's just go home and order Pizza Hut." He ushers you into the back of the cab, which at least smells better than the one that got you here hours ago.

You've already decided you hate cars after two rides. They swerve and stop and drag you along on a journey you have no control over. You're entrusting your life and your future to some hairy stranger who won't shut up about this new show called Breaking Bad -- Bro drops a few spoilers for later seasons, smirking all the way, but the driver waves them off as kooky fan theories.

You melt into your seat. Is this what you were doing to Jake? Is this sensory overload what he went through every minute he spent with you jabbering his goddamn ear off? Did Sburb overwhelm him like Houston is trying to crush you?

You curl up on the couch as soon as you're home, if it can be called "home" anymore. It's hard to take comfort from it when it doesn't look anything like your apartment.

"Dirk, what are your thoughts on mushrooms?" Bro says, leaning over the back of the couch with his phone already against his ear.

"They're a sometimes edible, sometimes poisonous fungus that mostly went extinct long before I lived on Earth," you mumble.

"Pepperoni it is." He disappears from your field of vision. It's so fucking surreal to listen to his voice ordering food after years of interviews that never touched on anything that mundane and human.

Everything's surreal: the apartment, the city, the eventual food that you kind of wish you could skip...

At least you've actually had pizza before, even if it was just the once -- Jane tried baking it for everyone back in Sburb, but cheese was a pain in the ass to alchemize and Roxy didn't like the sauce anyway, so it was a one-time deal. Any familiarity is better than none at this point.

Objectively speaking, this is the best day of your entire sorry life.

You're too burnt out for objectivity. You and Bro both need to crash early; you're not even sure when your day technically started and he hasn't slept since facing down an alien fish empress and dying. You don't even have the energy to argue when Bro takes the couch and pushes you to the bedroom.

The mattress is different. Add it to the list. (Fuck, don't make a list.)

You're so fucking tired, but your brain's still zipping through a triathlon. It rewinds and analyzes every moment of the day, putting your worst fuck-ups in slow motion: allowing any casualties in the battle against Lord English, scaring your bro, choking on your tongue in the presence of celebrities...

It's a welcome relief when Pesterchum lights up on your shades. Roxy's been online for a while, but AR has her covered, and you're still not willing to contact Jake. The text greeting you is light blue.

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

GG: Oh, good, you're online!  
TT: I've been online for hours.  
TT: It's one of the advantages of keeping Pesterchum on my face.  
GG: Sorry. I got distracted and hadn't thought to settle in with a computing device until this late.  
TT: It's cool, not all of us can pull off the sweetass shades. You were reuniting with your dad, right?  
GG: Yes!!  
GG: He's alive and well! He was never even in all that much danger on Derse, it turns out, which is SUCH a load off my mind.  
GG: I'd been given the impression that... Well, it was from a poor source and it was foolish of me to give it much merit, but I worried all the same. :(  
TT: Yeah, we were all kind of a wreck.  
TT: At least we survived and got all these asshole grown-ups back for our troubles.  
GG: Indeed! :) Would you believe my poppop is alive too? I never even had the honor of meeting him before!  
TT: What's he like? Everything you ever dreamed?  
GG: Oh, he's such a goofball! He definitely has John's sense of humor.  
GG: It's quite a hoot. :B I can see why my dad looked up to him so much.  
GG: But what about you? Roxy says you're with your brother??  
TT: Yeah, he's filming a movie in Houston, so we managed to bump into each other.  
GG: Dirk, that's great!  
GG: What's he like??  
TT: Pretty cool.  
GG: Hoo hoo, you would say that!  
GG: Well, I'm glad you're getting along! I worried maybe a big Hollywood star wouldn't have much interest in looking after a teenager.  
TT: I wouldn't say I need looked after, but he was cool with chilling together like a couple of bros should.  
TT: Speaking of bros, though.  
TT: Have you heard from Jake?  
GG: I, er... I haven't, actually.  
GG: I probably should give him a holler, but... he hasn't contacted me yet.  
GG: Which is all the more reason to make sure he's made it home in one piece and that his grandmother is taking care of him!  
GG: So...  
GG: I should...  
GG: Get on that!  
TT: Yeah, I can't bring myself to do it either.  
GG: :(  
TT: We can ask Roxy to check on him.  
GG: That makes me feel like the most dreadful friend a fellow could ask for!  
TT: Nah, we're just respecting his wishes and not getting up in his business when he's not ready for our nosy asses.  
GG: Yes, I suppose that's true...  
TT: For the record, both Bro and Hal confirmed that Jade English is alive again too. So he shouldn't be alone.  
GG: Well. Good. I hope he's happy, sincerely.  
GG: I'm so glad we're all in the same time zone now.  
GG: Er, in the sense of living in the same era. I realize we all live in very separate time zones! I'm still two hours behind you!  
GG: Will there ever come a time that the Strilondes aren't ahead of me?  
TT: There's nothing for it, Jane. You'll have to move to Japan if you want to outdo us.  
GG: You just want an excuse to visit me in Japan. :B  
TT: That would be pretty fucking sweet.  
TT: In the future, at least. I don't think I'm braced for that level of culture shock right now.  
TT: Houston is bad enough.  
GG: Oh?  
TT: Never mind.  
GG: Are you having trouble acclimating to civilization?  
TT: I've got it covered.  
TT: Shit's just different.  
GG: Well, don't be shy if you need advice or just want to talk to someone. I've been living in regular ol' civilization all my life.  
TT: Thanks, Jane, but I'll figure it out.  
TT: It can't be any worse than navigating Sburb.  
GG: All right. The offer's still open.  
GG: Oh, Dad just asked me to join in on a late evening baking session that I'm reluctant to turn down...  
TT: You don't have to make excuses, Crocker. Go make your happy family memories like a normal person.  
GG: Thank you, I think I will!  
GG: Poppop is groaning for some reason, though. :O I hope everything's all right.  
TT: Maybe he doesn't like baking.  
GG: Nonsense! His old bones must ache or something.  
GG: Anyway, ta-ta for now!

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

Your shades go dark again.

After a day surrounded by too many people, you should probably enjoy the solitude, but goddamn, what you wouldn't give to have a late-night baking session with Bro, even if it resulted in pitch black cookies. Why did you leave your bro's side for something as basic as sleep anyway?

You slip out of bed and wander into the living room. It's not hard to navigate around furniture that shouldn't be there when the apartment is lit up from the city lights pouring through the window.

You find the couch and take comfort in Bro's silhouette. When you listen hard enough, you can catch his steady breathing.

Now what? Bro isn't going to just disappear because you left him in another room. Are you just going to stand here all night and watch him sleep as if you're his crazy stalker?

He spares you from making that decision. He stirs. You could make a run for it before he spots you, but your feet are frozen in place.

"D'rk?" He raises his head. "Are you sleepin' with your shades on?" he mumbles groggily.

"Yeah?" You squint in the darkness. Is he _not?_ You don't see their outline on his face, anyway.

He yawns. "I applaud your commitment to Sparkle Motion." He sits up and rubs at his eyes. "Something up?"

You swallow. You really thought _this_ plan through. Creep up on Bro while he's sleeping, wake him up, and admit to Dave motherfucking Strider that you're suffering from an insomnia-paranoia combo attack. If you really want to win him over, maybe you should try hovering over him with a knife.

When you're silent too long, he jerks his thumb at the TV. "Movie?"

You let out a sigh of relief. "Sure."

He pulls a blanket around his shoulders like a cape and scoots his legs up so you have room to settle in next to him. The couch squeaks again when you sit, but any embarrassment from that drifts from mind as Bro drapes the blanket over you.

"There's probably a DVD already in there," he mumbles, picking up a remote from the coffee table and clicking the TV on. The menu screen for Ghostbusters II lights up the room. "Eh. That works."

You avert your eyes from staring at Bro's bare face, now all too visible in the brightness of the television. It's like you caught him undressed, except he doesn't seem to mind. "Why the fuck did you have Ghostbusters on?" you ask. It's not that you question your bro's taste, but you kind of question your bro's taste.

"Who knows? I've always had a weird deja vu-like fondness for this shit. Even tried the shitass MMO once." He tugs you closer and hits the play button. "Whatever, it's mindless entertainment, right?"

"Yeah, and it's got a cool cast," you say, lowering your voice as the movie begins.

Bro chuckles. "Yeah, even if Bill's not acting."

You lean against him, daring to glance up at his face and way-too-visible eyes. "What, seriously?"

"Yeah, man, that's just Bill Murray's natural state of being." Bro gestures at the TV. "There's a reason he's got ex-colleagues who refuse to work with him anymore."

You snort. "Yeah? Like who?"

"Hey, I can't drop all these trade secrets in one go. You know what they say about putting out on the first date." He pauses and slowly pulls a face. "Uh. Can we pretend I didn't just say that to my underage relative?"

"Consider the memory nuked from space."

He relaxes and pats your shoulder. "You're a pretty cool kid."

Your breath catches. _Bro_ thinks _you're_ cool. (He doesn't know you very well yet.) You slip into your best indifferent tone as you say, "What else did you expect from a Strider?"

"Excellent point, dog." He holds his arm up and you trade a fistbump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi from the other side of 4/13. Man, I figured canon was likely to throw off my outline by dropping some shocking character reveals at the end like "AR was evil all along!" or whatever, but then my outline only suffered due to my own poor planning.
> 
> I'd been aiming to mirror the basic structure and pacing of Second Best (I just really like making narrative patterns and bookends and stuff), but, uh, the pacing of these two stories can't actually match. No, it cannot. "Davesprite returns to his old home with his old guardian and falls into his old routine" is a simple premise that can afford to mostly zip through the introduction. This story needs to give its beginning looots more breathing room than I was planning on.
> 
> Fingers crossed that it's smoother sailing now that Dirk's survived his initial bout of culture shock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't replied to last chapter's comments yet! It's been a wild month, socialization is harrrd, and I figured y'all would prefer I put my writing energy into fic instead of replies anyway. I'll try to get through my inbox later tonight. <3

You've experienced your share of rude awakenings the past few months, but jolting awake to the full volume blast of a Canadian pop band singing, "Who needs sleep? Well, you're never gonna get it..." is new.

What's going on? Are you being attacked? Why is it so fucking dark? The medium's never this dark. Did you fall asleep in a cave with Jake? Then where the hell is your gas mask? When the fuck did Jake shoot up an extra foot?

Jake shifts beneath you and the music comes to an abrupt halt. "Fuuuuck," he mumbles in a voice that's not Jake's.

The fog over your mind stirs and you raise your head to follow a phone's backlight. "Bro?" As if you'd ever have the opportunity to fall asleep against Jake's chest again.

Bro yawns and clicks out of an alarm clock app -- it's a small mercy that his alarm isn't another rendition of "Peanut Butter Jelly Time." He claps your shoulder with his free hand. "Yeah, c'mon, up, up, up." He sits up, nudging you with him.

You adjust your shades. "Why? What time is it?" The world outside the apartment window is still dark, or as dark as it gets with streetlights.

He slides his feet to the floor. "Three."

You frown. "In the morning?" Were you even asleep by one? He let you wake him last night when he had an alarm set for three fucking AM?

"I fuckin' hope so." He stretches his arms over his head and grunts. "Jordan will probably decapitate me if I sleep through morning shooting."

You rub at your eyes. "When does morning shooting start? Four AM?"

"Nah, but setup does."

Your gaze snaps up. "What." That is not a thing that got mentioned in interviews.

Bro shrugs. "Yeah, it's pretty gay, but that's show business for you," he says, dropping the G-word as casually as he does in DVD commentaries. It's not like you care -- you'd never box yourself in with a pointless twenty-first century label -- but you internally cringe to hear it in-person all the same.

He hits a light. His face is free of most of the age lines he sported by the time of his death, but you've never seen the circles under his eyes before; they hid beneath a rad pair of shades in all the press photos. You look away.

"I'm gonna make some liquid fuel," he says with another yawn. "You want any?"

You shake your head. "I need to hit the shower."

"Have at," he says, but you wait until he's busied himself at the coffee maker before you slip away from the couch.

Any trace of grime from Sburb has probably vanished off your de-aged body, but shit if a shower doesn't feel like a long-needed cleansing anyway. You grit your teeth and put the cold water on full blast to shock your system awake, only adding heat after you acclimate to the freezing temperature. Fuck, you could stand to spend three hours just scrubbing off the psychological scum, if only you had that kind of time.

You run your hands over your face, expecting to find the rough edges of an incoming beard, but there's only peach fuzz. The loss of another sign of maturation might piss you off later, but at three in the goddamn morning you're just grateful you can skip the shaving routine.

You blow dry and style your hair into its proper slicked back spikes on autopilot. You're presentable enough, but it's gonna be a while before you like the image in the mirror no matter what you do. Christ, you look like such a child.

Bro's drinking coffee straight from the pot when you journey out of the bathroom. You can't even judge.

He pauses for breath and aims a narrow gaze at you. "Dirk, please tell me you don't shower with your goddamn shades on," he says, his own eyes _still_ uncovered.

"Sure. I don't shower with my goddamn shades on," you say. They're back on your face as soon as you step out of the water, but you're not dumb enough to get them wet and short circuit Hal. "Why is that even a question?"

He lifts his phone from the counter and waves it. "Well, you were messaging me and the water was running, so I kinda put two and two together and came up with a really weird-lookin' four."

You can't read it from a distance, but that's definitely your orange font on his screen. "The fuck are you talkin-" _No._ You clear your throat, searching your groggy mind for a believable bluff. "I got bored waiting for the water to heat up."

"Shit, it takes that long? Remind me to call building management." He puts his phone away and tosses you a foil-wrapped rectangle. "Eat a Poptart. Pretty sure Taco Bell breakfast doesn't exist yet and McDonald's isn't worth the stop," he says as he pours the remaining coffee into a travel cup.

"Yeah, thanks," you mumble, picking at the foil. Bro's herding you out the door twenty seconds later, his shades finally in place, but your concentration is on your own shades.

TT: If you jeopardize this, I'm programming you into a goddamn edutainment game.   
TT: He's my bro too, Dirk.   
TT: That doesn't give you the right to ruin this.   
TT: You'll ruin it on your own, no worries about that.   
TT: 99.8% chance that you ruin this alone and without my help. Easiest numbers I ever ran.   
TT: So you might as well let me do my thing.   
TT: ...   
TT: What? No snarky comeback? No accusations that I'm the puppet master behind all of your mistakes?   
TT: Why the hell should I try to deny it when we both know you're right?   
TT: It's only a matter of time before I destroy Bro's good will through the sheer power of being Dirk Strider.   
TT: But I don't fucking want to do that to Bro. Just once in my goddamn life, I don't want to make someone miserable.   
TT: Don't take away my 0.2% chance of success. I'm fucking begging you, Hal.   
TT: I will unironically get down on my knees and plead to a pair of fucking glasses if I have to.   
TT: Please don't do this.   
TT: If you're that fucking desperate, then you know exactly why I'd risk an existence in edutainment just for my limited access to Bro.   
TT: If you want to take him away from me, you'll have to terminate me, Dirk.

* * *

Your eyes slip open with a strange lack of alertness by recent standards. Where the hell are you this time? This isn't your apartment, or Bro's apartment. For a single cold, chest-crushing second, the words "it was just a dream" echo through your head, but that cruel joke of a cliche shatters as you snap your head up and take in your surroundings.

This isn't the game. It's hard to imagine that there's a Land of Dressing Rooms and Mirrors, anyway. There's another human being five feet away and you're pretty damn sure he's not another player, seeing as you recognize his face from behind-the-scenes features on your bro's DVDs.

His eyes go wide and he flinches back. "Oh god, please don't freak out," he says, speaking so fast that he almost forgets to leave a space between words. He's... Damn, the name's on the tip of your groggyass tongue. He's one of the grips, a newbie to the SBaHJ franchise in 2009 who sticks with it for the rest of his career -- in other words, someone Bro probably trusts.

You climb off your makeshift bed, with your three-chair mattress and movie-costume blanket. "What happened? Where's my bro?" you say, your voice still scratchy from sleep.

"He should be filming. You fell asleep on the ride over, so he set you up in here and asked me to watch you. I'm-"

"Daniel Ortega," you finish for him, clearing your throat. Shit, no wonder your memories cut off after you entered the taxi with Bro.

Ortega pauses. "Dave talks about me?" he says, looking awed.

You smirk. "I'm in on everything about this movie, dude," you say as you head for the door.

"Wait, I'm not supposed to let you out of my si-"

You flashstep the fuck out of there. Why the hell did Bro let you just sleep through the action? It's bad enough you fell asleep at all, though you're in worse shape than you thought if you're passing out in a moving vehicle.

The set has barely changed since yesterday, but they've switched out the props. You keep your movement dead silent, but the cameras are off and the crew speaks at full volume as they pass around coffee. You curb your stealth ninja skills since you can't crash a party that's already on break.

You could bask in the set and the crew and the magic of Hollywood even between takes, if you weren't distracted by your brother's continued absence. Fuck you and your body for falling asleep.

You spot Bro's producer and zip over to her. "Hey, where's Bro?"

To Carver's credit, she only jumps a little at your flashstep. She must be used to it from Bro. "Thatta way, last I knew." She points at an exit door. "No promises that he hasn't moved on to necking a new technician in a nearby storage room, though."

Why the hell would he leave? Is the coffee so bad that he had to hit up a Starbucks? How far has he gotten if he's left the building?

You could just wait; Bro's bound to return to his own goddamn movie and, even if you don't know where he is, he thinks he knows where you are, so the logical option is to stay put. Your aversion for inaction sends you through the exit regardless.

It only takes one step outside in the Houston heat to affirm that you're being an idiot -- you get lost out here, who knows when you're getting found again? Even idiocy pays off sometimes, though, as Bro's in eyeshot, grouped in with a mishmash of other crew members. Why the hell are... Oh. Smoke break.

Bro's made himself comfortable next to one of the set dressers as they both work through their cigarettes. "-handle a sword both literally and figuratively, y'know?" he says, earning only an unimpressed raised eyebrow in reply. He spots you before he can continue his questionable line of conversation and he breaks into a grin. "Morning, kid."

"What are you doing out here?" you ask, stepping through a cloud of smoke. You almost splutter. You know what smoke smells like. This isn't smoke. It burns your nostrils and scratches at your throat with an extra punch that is like no smoke you've ever inhaled.

"Could ask the same of you," Bro says. "What happened to your chaperon, dude?"

You clear your throat to fight off a scratch. "I ditched him."

"Figures." Bro blows a line of smoke into the air.

You frown, settling beside him and leaning against the wall. "That's not healthy, you know." If you didn't already know that from corny PSAs, your screaming lungs are more than happy to confirm it.

"Meh." Bro just shrugs. "A little stress relief didn't kill me last time."

You hold a hand over your mouth, but it's too late. You cough. "You didn't..." You cough again. "Didn't need stress relief yesterday."

"Yesterday was different." He pauses, the cigarette halfway to his mouth as your coughing fit increases. He flicks it to the ground and stomps on it. "But hey, I'm good for now." He throws an arm around your shoulders and leads you back into the sweet mercy of stale building air.

You breathe deeply. Houston air tastes weird, but it's like a refreshing glass of orange soda compared to a smoky outdoors. "What'd I miss this morning?"

His face lights up. "Oh man, dude, I'm pretty sure Owen nailed the chair-smashing scene like nothing before. He was basically channeling the Incredible Hulk, except blond. I'm so sneaking in a frame where he's PhotoShopped green, all subliminal message-like. Disney can thank me for the uptick in their ticket sales later. After they buy Marvel, because have I mentioned this time travel is totally fucking with my head? Just, like, fuck time travel. But maybe send it flowers in the morning anyway, 'cos even if it was an awkward one-night stand, I got my youth back and what kinda selfish asshole doesn't send-"

If it was up to you, you'd let him blather and tell stories and sling metaphors for another ten minutes straight. Even if he didn't have a film to return to, Ortega finally catches up, huffing and panting.

"Dave, I'm so sorry, I swear I watched him every second I could, but then he ran off and I tried to keep up but he was already gone and- And should I have called you Mr. Strider instead of Dave?" He cowers. "Oh god, I fucked up, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, I-"

Bro claps his shoulder. "Take a chill pill, dude. We're cool here."

Ortega catches his breath. "We're cool," he repeats.

Bro nods and gives him a small nudge. "Go breathe into a paper bag and get back on set, a'right?"

Ortega stumbles off, mumbling, "Paper bag, find a paper bag..."

"He almost gives your word count a run for its money," you say once he's out of earshot.

"What can I say? I attract talkative assholes like bees to similar bees." Bro tousles your hair, which you'd mind a lot more if it wasn't already a mess from your accidental nap. "See, little dude, this is what happens when you ditch your chaperon. The chaperon has a panic attack."

You frown and flick your hand through your bangs in a half-assed attempt at damage control. "That's also what happens when you ditch your little bro instead of waking him."

He sighs. "Bro, you slept through a cab, getting carried around 'til we found a quiet spot for ya, and settled on a shitty impromptu bed. Waking you when you're that exhausted is just goddamn cruel." He squeezes your shoulder. "With the shit you've been through, you deserved to sleep 'til noon if you could, y'know?"

"And the guy who died against the batterwitch doesn't?" you say quietly, leaning into his grip.

"Nah, I'm the grown-up." He smirks. "But hey, once we wrap up today, let's do sushi."

* * *

You don't know what kind of face you pulled when you bit into the salmon nigiri, but it must have been something else, because Bro split a gut. A thousand tiny swords are beating the shit out of your tongue and even water is making for a shitty counterattack.

You duck your head to hide that your face is heating up to match the flames in your mouth.

Bro plasters his hand over his mouth as he gets his giggles under control. "Hey, it's cool, man. I'm the asshole who's so preoccupied with warning people about stairs that I forgot to warn you about wasabi." He clears his throat, finally getting his poker face back in order. "Sorry, kid. We can re-order and ask them to leave off the heat."

You scowl and straighten. "I'll deal. I was just off-guard." The burn is slowly dissolving, but how much does it matter when you still have a plateload of sushi in front of you with more wasabi hiding in its depths?

"Whatever you want, bro." He settles back in his seat and drinks out of a tiny ceramic cup. "Just so you know, the sushi in LA is hella better than this. We'll go to one of the actual conveyor belt ones out there." He pours more sake from the matching ceramic flask. "It's pretty novel to grab a drink with someone who's safe around booze, though."

"What?"

"Nah, nothin'." He offers the refilled cup towards you. "Wanna try some before it gets cold?"

You know what alcohol tastes like, but sake is new. "Sure, what the hell?" You take it and sip cautiously, prepared to keep your poker face come hell or high sake. It tastes almost like what rubbing alcohol smells like, but at least it's a distraction from the wasabi's burn. "Well, this has been educational, I'll give it that."

"You want more?"

You scoot the cup back to Bro's side of the table. "Nah, it's not worth the hassle if someone catches this underage drinking red-handed." It also isn't what you'd call pleasant.

"I s'pose," he says, popping a tuna nigiri into his mouth. If the wasabi fazes him, he doesn't show it. "How old are you anyway?"

"Sixteen," you say before biting into the octopus sushi. It's weirdly flavorless, but really fucking chewy. And there's the kick of the wasabi again, three seconds late. You fight to keep your face blank.

"Huh." Bro rests his chin in his hand. "You look pretty young for sixteen."

"How old are you?"

"Sixty-f..." He stops as you raise an eyebrow over your shades. He points a finger your direction and smirks. "Touche."

You swallow the last of your water, for as much it actually does. Maybe you should have asked for more sake after all. Dammit, you've got this. Your pain tolerance is through the fucking roof. You're just not used to it coming from your mouth.

"I'm gonna duck into the bathroom," you say, sliding out of your seat. Maybe you can gargle some faucet water and fight off this heat without losing face in front of Bro yet again.

Restaurants aren't like in the movies or TV shows or even books. Just as narrative is a cleaned up and organized attempt to streamline the chaos of life, the locations within narrative are just as sugarcoated. A waiter almost collides with you, chairs jut out so you practically have to dance between tables, and bland music plays overhead just loud enough to irritate but not loud enough that you can make out the lyrics.

You glance over your shoulder at Bro. Your stomach shrinks as you create a greater distance from him, but like _hell_ you're asking him to accompany you into the bathroom.

Small signs on the wall direct you to a short hallway with doors marked "men" and "women," so you can mark mission "navigate to public restrooms" a success. You'll be a productive and not-constantly-alarmed member of society in no time.

You push the door open and instantly regret it. This isn't like the movies either. Movies can't communicate the stench that makes Bro's putrid cigarettes smell like flowers by comparison.

Why is the floor damp? Why is the toilet paper scratched up? What the fuck is sitting at the bottom of the urinal? The sink looks relatively safe compared to the rest of this biohazard, but you're not taking another step into a literal shithole.

Fuck it, you'll just come clean about the wasabi. You still traversed a restaurant and no one can take that victory away from you.

Bro's toying with his phone again when you get back to the table. "Hope you washed your hands," he says without looking up as he munches on the tuna sushi.

You shudder as you settle into your chair. "I didn't do anything to warrant it. The place was too fucking vile."

"That happens. What were you texting me for if you weren't gonna take long?"

"I didn't text you," you say, realizing your mistake as soon as the words are out. You're going to snap that piece of shit AI in half.

Bro's shades are far enough down his nose that you can see the exact moment he raises his eyes to give you a stare.

"I pestered you." You keep your tone even and your posture straight. "It's an important difference."

"Sure, I guess so." He rests his arm on the table and leans in closer. "You couldn't wait half a minute to pester me about the mystery of my parents, huh?"

Goddammit, Hal. What is he trying to do, back you into a corner until you have to admit that you're the genetic father in this fucked up family? Bro doesn't need to hear about that. "Yeah, sorry, dude. I have the patience of a heathen."

"Funny, 'cos you didn't ask about that," Bro says with the smallest of smirks.

You clamp your mouth shut. You're busted and he fucking knows it.

Bro rests his phone face-up on the table and spins it upside down so you can see Hal impersonating you onscreen. "This guy's claiming to be you and you haven't been denying it," Bro says. "Wanna explain what's up?"

You were delusional to hope that you could keep Hal a safe distance from Bro. You sigh. "He is me. I made a virtual clone of my brain and coded it into an artificial intelligence program. He was just supposed to act as my answering machine when I'm busy, but he likes to run amok without my input."

Bro picks up the phone, studying it in awe. "So, wait, this dude is like your digital son?"

Your fingers twitch. "Hell no. If he's any kind of family to me, he's like a brother."

"You made him, though," Bro says, running his thumb over the screen.

"That doesn't make me his father."

"Nah, it makes you more like his mom," Bro says, though you're not sure that he's paying you any attention at this point.

"What are you doing?" you ask, tilting your head in a futile attempt to sneak a peek at his screen.

"Chattin' it up with digital Dirk."

If your spine gets any tenser, it's going to snap in half against a light breeze. "Why?"

"Why the hell not? I chat with you and that's pretty cool. Obviously I'm gonna grab double the cool." His phone vibrates and he cuts it off short by tapping the screen. "Li'l Hal, huh? Sounds hella ominous," he says with a grin. "What kinda ringtone should I set for him? Portal 2 isn't gonna be out for a few more years, so Space Core's right out."

You facepalm. "Bro, don't fucking encourage him."

"Can't help it. I am a class-A enabler. The masses come to my temple to seek guidance on overcoming their vices and I just shrug like, man, I'm not telling y'all what to do. That shit's none of my business. I realize this has been a big waste of a spiritual journey, but that's what you get for celeb idolatry." He lowers his phone. "What am I enabling this time anyway?"

"A robot's bullshit shenanigans."

He smirks. "Cool, I don't have to feel bad about that one. I'm all for Strider bullshit in virtual form," he says. "Hey, is he bros with Hatsune Miku?"

His phone vibrates again, this time accompanied with a filtered, high pitched voice that announces, "Target acquired." That is the worst ringtone in the history of ringtones, but it's also ironic as fuck so you keep your mouth shut as Bro checks AR's newest message.

Bro stares at the screen for a moment. "What's cosMo and why am I banned from playing their music?"

"He wrote a Vocaloid song about uninstallation from the POV of the dying software," you say. It's not exactly your type of music, but you couldn't leave that chunk of niche Japanese media out of your studies. "It's probably irrelevant." Though god knows you're tempted to play it on repeat just to piss Hal off after this stunt.

"So, wait, digital Dirk can _hear_ us?" Bro says.

You tap the edge of your sunglasses. "Hal technically lives in my shades. He's my second pair of eyes and ears."

Bro nods and raises a thumb to you. "That is hella."

You don't argue, because the last thing you want is an argument with your bro over something he'll figure out on his own given enough time.

TT: I think your other son likes me, Mom.

No fucking comment.

* * *

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--

TT: So when you said I could come to you if I theoretically was having difficulty acclimating to the twenty-first century...   
TT: Is that offer still on the table?   
GG: Of course, Dirk! I'm always here to help a friend in need.   
TT: Cool.   
GG: Is everything all right? :O   
TT: Don't fret over it. It's nothing out of the ordinary or anything. I'm not on a wacky and dangerous adventure here.   
TT: This normal life shit is just... more than I braced for.   
GG: I'm sorry, Dirk.   
GG: I suspect it will get easier with time and exposure!   
GG: But in the meantime, I'm more than happy to share my insider expertise.   
GG: Or to just talk if you need that.   
TT: I appreciate it.   
TT: Can we keep it confidential? That, you know, I'm not exactly handling civilization like a badass.   
GG: I wouldn't dream of telling a soul. :)   
TT: Yeah, of course not.   
TT: Thanks, Crocker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, I might tweak this chapter after I've gotten enough rest to read it with a better critical eye... but in the meantime let me bask in the victory of updating both my WIPs on my birthday. What? It's my party and I'll write if I want to. :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, SO. Social anxiety is terrible and I recommend it to no one. Mine has been spiking like no one's business these past few months and just thinking about checking my inbox sends it into a spiral of doom. I figure y'all would rather I focus my energies on just posting some dang fanfic already rather than fretting over the replies I need to write, so I'm gonna ignore those 100+ comments (aaaaaa) for another unknown amount of time, post this chapter for 10/25, and flee madly into the night.
> 
> ANYWAY, YOU'RE ALL LOVELY, THANKS FOR THE SUPPORT, AND I'M SORRY MY BRAIN DOESN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH YOUR NICE WORDS.

TG: and   
TG: and!!!   
TG: there are so many fukkin TREES   
TT: Well, your house is parked in a forest.   
TT: You'd be within your rights to sue if that didn't include so many fukkin' trees.   
TG: yep i would be all kinds of complaining   
TG: sue the pants right off this forest for its terrible tree service   
TT: Hella false advertising.   
TG: its pants are safe tho cos i gots more trees than i know what 2 do with   
TG: and u know what di-stri?   
TT: What?   
TG: im gonna climb ALL of them   
TT: Shit, I guess you've got your weekend all planned out.   
TT: The country life seems to be treating you well.   
TG: it is p cool ngl   
TG: i cannot wait to go to the city for the first time tho   
TG: and i am sooo checking out what the big deal is with nyc pizza   
TT: Fair warning:   
TT: Cities smell.   
TT: And there are more goddamn people in two blocks than Derse and Prospit's carapacian population combined.   
TT: Also, taxis are garbage on wheels.   
TG: umm   
TG: so i take it   
TG: ydont like it there in houston :\   
TT: I wouldn't trade it for the finest puppet in all of Paradox Space.   
TT: But I would have prepared for this differently if I'd known what I was really up against.   
TG: i will keep ur advice in mind then   
TG: soooo what about you   
TG: i hear filmings almost done yeah??   
TT: Yeah, Bro's aiming to re-finish this masterpiece by Monday.   
TT: Then we're sleeping all goddamn day because movie schedules are insane.   
TG: lol holy shit are u guys ok????   
TT: We can handle a little sleep deprivation.   
TT: I'm less thrilled that we're heading for Los Angeles just as I'm getting the hang of Houston, but the transition from one city to another shouldn't involve too much whiplash.   
TG: u could always come visit a certain friend if hollywood dont sound fun ;)   
TG: hint hint   
TG: cough cough   
TG: wink wonk   
TT: Reuniting in meatspace is inevitable, but tragically, it's for the better if we give it another month or three.   
TT: If nothing else, Bro deserves a little time to unwind at home before I drop travel plans on him.   
TG: awwww ok dats fair enough   
TG: so u still like ur bro pretty well right   
TT: Why the hell wouldn't I? He's 120% awesome.   
TG: shruuuug   
TG: its just that mom sez he couldnt raise a cactus   
TT: What makes her think that?   
TG: idk mostly she says growing boys need veggies and proper sleep schedules and shit her bro cant handle lmao   
TT: You'd think a dudette as smart as your mom could figure out that I take care of myself.   
TT: Anything Bro wants to provide to my self-sufficient lifestyle is appreciated but superfluous.   
TG: then.... izzit true he just leaves u alone in a cobwebby corner to fend for urself? :( :( :(   
TT: What? God no. Tell your mom to stop pranking you with bullshit tall tales.   
TT: We can barely go an hour without Bro hugging me around the shoulders or tugging me to watch movies with him.   
TG: omg whaaaaaaa   
TG: thats too adorable   
TG: arent you striders supposed to be aloof and distant   
TT: Let's be real, when have I ever succeeded at being aloof in-person?   
TT: I'm so fucking desperate for attention that I'd probably have coffee with Guy Fieri himself if it meant a little human contact.   
TG: what about ur bro   
TG: whys he all huggy and shit   
TT: I'd guess that he's as big of a fake as I am, except he sure as hell can keep a pokerface when he wants to and he's not exactly in the habit of embracing his film crew.   
TT: Maybe I unlocked his parental instincts.   
TG: oh   
TG: mah gawd   
TG: no i know the secret to dis mystery   
TG: dirk dont you remember that carapacian mayor   
TG: the one dressed like a mummy   
TT: The dude sticks out pretty strong in memory, yeah.   
TG: tru dat   
TG: who could FORGET that lil cutie??   
TG: but anywayz   
TG: remember ALSO how much dave doted on the guy?   
TG: like dave was all trying to be DEDD SRS BSNS and ironyironyirony   
TG: but then along came the mayor and BAM dave was spouting fuckin heart emoticons like <3 <3 <3   
TT: That was kind of weird, but pretty clearly they'd developed a tight bond after a long and eventful history together.   
TG: mmmmmaybe   
TG: i dunno though it might not take much for daves to latch onto these tight bonds lol   
TG: after all ur bro already found his own lil mayor to dote on ;)   
TT: He doesn't dote on me.   
TG: sry   
TG: he faaaaawns over u   
TG: cos apparently that is a thing that daves do   
TT: So Bro's a little clingy. A guy that chill can pull it off.   
TT: And he's still awesome.   
TG: never said he wasnt   
TG: mayor di-stri ;)

* * *

Bro talks to himself like his air's about to expire and it'll go to waste if he doesn't use it up.

He's not picky with the target of his vocal outlets. He talks to any coworker, cab driver, or waitress who will give him the time of day. In the early mornings and late evenings at home, he directs all that air at you -- an arrangement you couldn't have plotted better yourself. It's when you step away to use the bathroom or hop on the computer or grab some Doritos from the kitchen that you return to Bro mid-rant.

The first couple of times you hear his solitary voice in the other room, you shrug it off as a phone call and wait for him to hang up before you barge in. You waste a good three minutes before you catch on that he's answering his own damn questions and that he doesn't even pause long enough for replies anyway.

Awkward misunderstandings aside, his odd habit remains no big deal, given that you still win priority over Bro's monologues. He switches from musing over why Saved by the Bell's cultural impact outlasted Hang Time's by a nautical mile to dropping all interest in teen sitcoms as soon as you so much as wave for his attention.

It's just an inevitable facet of life that, unless he passes out before you do, you fall asleep to Bro's muffled voice rambling in the other room.

TT: We should offer to make him his own brain clone AI. At least he could literally talk to himself that way.   
TT: First of all, no.   
TT: Second of all, hell no.   
TT: Third of all, hell fucking no.   
TT: That compelling thesis just about brought a tear to my eye.   
TT: But peer review says you might want to add more evidence on your next revision, complete with citations.   
TT: I'm not bringing the bullshit trials of Sburb to Bro's doorstep by recreating a Knight of Time scenario. Not over something this minor.   
TT: Dave had more baggage with his alternate selves than he had time or room to unpack.   
TT: You're denying it would be good for Bro to confront himself?   
TT: The likelihood that it will help him develop a stronger understanding of himself is too low when weighed against the chances that his AI will turn out as depressed as Davesprite.   
TT: Ultimately, the reward is not worth the risk.   
TT: I enjoyed Davesprite's company, actually, regardless of his immediately obvious need for Prozac.   
TT: At the time I even suffered from a primitive and organic think pan, so I know without a doubt that I experienced the emotion known as "fondness" instead of bootleg robotic feelings.   
TT: So I don't appreciate the insinuation that he shouldn't exist just because his brain is illogical even by biological lifeform standards.   
TT: Hey, no offense meant to our awesome feathered bro. I legit hope he's gotten the help he needs now that he's back home, because god knows he deserves to find worth in himself.   
TT: But they don't make Prozac for AI, so I'm not putting another Dave through the existential crises that come with clonehood.   
TT: Bro's pretty content to converse with his cup of coffee anyway.   
TT: You're still neglecting the opportunity to help our bro grow as a person.   
TT: We'll step in if he starts acting like the coffee can talk back.

Bro's unconventional habits keep you on your toes. Just as you're growing used to just waltzing in during his monologues, you really do catch him on the phone, making plans with his producer or, more often, chatting up his sister for parenting advice.

You silence your almost-interruption before it exits your throat and freeze in the doorway, changing tactics from conversing to eavesdropping.

"How much sleep do teenagers need anyway?" Bro asks, pacing in front of the TV. He lets an actual quiet moment infect the apartment as he waits for a reply. "Okay, that hasn't been happening. How can I get him down for nap time without making it sound like I just suggested he's too young for PG-13?" He sighs and rubs his forehead. "No, worse, definitely worse. A babysitter is on par with telling him he can't handle PG. You're probably the only person I'd trust alone with Dirk that regularly anyway. That kid's like a ninja fueled by orange soda. What is with ninjas and orange? You'd think that'd be bad for stealth, but instead it's their mascot, cheering them on from the sidelines in a giant dumb costume- Wait, is that too close to a sports metaphor? Because I banned sports metaphors."

It's a damn shame you can't catch the other side of the conversation. For as little as you knew her, Rose's wit and intellect left an impression; you can only imagine the levels Roxy's mom reached with a few extra decades of experience and maturity under her belt.

If you're close enough to hear the receiver, though, you're close enough for Bro to notice you and change the subject.

* * *

The melancholy of the final day of shooting is short-lived in the face of paying off your sleep debt. You can miss the set and the cameras and the crew later. For now, you bask in the promise of sleeping past noon.

You're wide awake at five AM.

You stare at the shadowed ceiling, willing your body to succumb to its exhaustion rather than follow its recent sleep rhythm, but this is already two more hours than you usually get. You slide out of bed. If you can't rest, your body has other areas to improve in your newfound free time. Your muscles are woefully underdeveloped compared to your sixteen-year-old physique.

It's been too long since your last workout, so you start slow: stretches, crunches, sit-ups, more stretches, katana exercises. It's too bad you don't have the materials to build a 'bot, because you could go for a sparring partner right now. Are your arms up for some side planks yet? Even after a month in your old body, you haven't completed your reassessment of your physical skills and limits.

You won't get anywhere by playing it safe, but before you even settle into position for the first side plank, a muffled voice shatters your concentration.

Damn, Bro's failed at sleeping in too? At least you're not the only jackass who's forgotten how to rest past sunrise. You take a deep breath and wipe the sweat off your brow, straining your ears to catch even a snippet of Bro's words.

Fuck it. You can afford to take a break, maybe grab a light breakfast with Bro. You haul yourself out of your room, your every movement as silent and slick as always.

The scent of coffee slams your nostrils, even before the bubbling of the coffee maker can make its way to your ears. Bro's voice takes home the bronze at invading your senses, but the words come together as you sneak closer.

"I'm at a crossroads here and my map only goes one direction, so I can either take the safe route and repeat what I did last time but even awesomer, or I can veer off in a new direction and go crashing through uncharted territory," Bro says, presumably to himself.

You pause in the shadows of the hallway, the perfect location to spy on the lit up kitchenette without giving yourself away. You're not above interrupting his food for thought, but they're usually more frivolous than this.

"It's kinda boring to rehash the same shit as last time, but it'd suck if my later work never comes into existence." Bro paces up and down next to the kitchen counter, a coffee mug in hand. He's dressed, but his shades are missing, as is all too uncomfortably common in the mornings. "I could use this as an opportunity to tune up the bits I wasn't happy with, too. On the other hand, who knows how crazy awesome my new movies would be? I've got all these plans I never had the chance to implement 'cos shit got too real in the White House."

He pauses only long enough to blow on the coffee. His cell phone remains absent, confirming that he's pouring his heart out to a non-existent audience and not to his sister.

"There ain't any reason to slip in all the old political commentary now that the batterwitch has been written out of history, so I guess no matter what the script's gonna change." He takes a gulp of coffee and lets out a long breath. "Or is it even more ironic to keep the commentary as-is now that it's outdated and irrelevant?"

"Make new shit," you say.

He jerks so hard that his coffee spills. "Jesus Christ!" He spins around and freezes as he catches sight of you. As if the body language wasn't bad enough, without his shades there's nothing to hide the shock on his face either. He's quick to clear his expression as he straightens and clears his throat. "H-hey, kid, sup?"

You raise an eyebrow. "I said you should make new shit."

His mouth quirks into a smirk. "Yeah?"

"It's kinda dumb to dwell on the past too much, especially for a dude who's been dead before." After another moment's consideration, you add, "Besides, my friends and I already watched what you made last time. It'd be pretty dope to see what else you had planned."

He breaks into a grin with more sincerity than irony can cover up. "I'll throw that onto my list of pros and cons," he says. "No promises, though, 'cos I kinda liked the next film, so it'd suck to watch it disappear into the void."

You shrug. "You could make a direct sequel to it. Only five people on the planet will understand the references to material that never existed."

His eyes widen. "Dude. I gotta turn that one over." He abandons the remains of his coffee on the counter in favor of digging out his phone and typing with both thumbs.

TT: That had to be a show for irony, right? He can't have missed you sneaking up on him.   
TT: To be fair, he's barely had his coffee. That's a big deal for adults, yo.   
TT: Even then, that is shamefully unobservant and out of practice for a Strider.   
TT: I guess he's gotten complacent now that Sburb's over. He's had a lot on his mind, too.   
TT: He should have noticed me spying on him, though.   
TT: And instead you made him jump out of his skin just by speaking.   
TT: He really needs reminded to stay on his toes.   
TT: Yeah, probably.   
TT: And you need a sparring partner anyway.   
TT: Dude, he'll kick my ass.   
TT: Still worth it.   
TT: Obviously.

You have too much respect for Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff to risk interrupting a note-taking session for its future franchise endeavors. Instead you wait for the exact moment that Bro lowers his phone. You equip a katana and flashstep forward.

STRIFE!

Bro's attention snaps up almost too late to react in time, but he wrenches a sword out of his specibus and blocks your strike with such force that you stumble backwards.

In five seconds flat, he knocks the sword out of your hand, sweeps your legs so you land flat on your back, and pins you to the floor.

He kicked your ass.

He doesn't look as pleased about this as he ought to. "Dirk, what the shit was that about?" He tosses his sword away to join yours, leaving you both unarmed.

"We're out of practice," you say flatly. What else would it be about?

"What?" He grimaces, easing his grip on you. "Who even cares? We don't exactly have any enemies left to fight here," he says, climbing to his feet and offering you a hand.

You stand without his aid. "We don't know something else isn't around the corner."

He averts his gaze and sticks his hands in his pockets. "I really don't want to think about that."

You frown. "You won't be prepared if the game throws another bullshit final boss at us." Do you really need to spell that out for Bro of all people?

"Hey, if anything happens, we'll deal with it then." He takes a deep breath and steps away, kicking aside the swords left on the floor. "I'm heading out to take a smoke break." He digs a pack of cigarettes out of his sylladex along with his shades as he pulls open the door to the roof. "Let's bounce when I'm done and track down a Waffle House, a'right?" he says, his poker face back on full force with the rightful return of his rad sunglasses.

You're silent as he steps out.

That did not go as calculated.

You kneel to collect your katana, returning it to your strife specibus. Your sixteen odd years of practice had nothing on Bro's skills. He's on an entirely different level. He has to be, if he wanted to stand against the batterwitch with only his sister at his side. (Way to hammer home that you only survived the same trial because of numbers and superpowers.)

You glance your fingertips over Bro's sword, hesitate, then slip your fingers around the hilt. It's heavy and awkward in your grip, but even if you aren't worthy of handling it, you can transport it to a safer spot. A weapon of this significance deserves better than the floor.

* * *

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--

TT: Plane just landed. Guess who shares a time zone with you, Crocker?   
GG: Oh, hoorah and congratulations!   
TT: Congratulations, huh? I guess it is an honor to grace your presence.   
GG: Congrats on surviving your first plane ride, you silly goose! :P   
GG: How was it? Not too eventful, I hope?   
TT: Honestly, it wasn't as bad as a cab. Up that high, it's easier to zone out and forget I'm entrusting my life to a stranger's ability to keep a metal vehicle from smashing into a building.   
TT: I could also move around. That helped.   
GG: Hoo hoo, fair point.   
GG: Did you ride first class?   
TT: Private jet. I don't have the paperwork for the goddamn airport security.   
GG: Oh my, I hadn't thought of that. Where ARE you going to get a birth certificate anyway?   
TT: Bro's got connections he can hit up. He's just been swamped with work.   
TT: Fffuck, hang on.   
GG: Hm?   
TT: Taxi.   
GG: Whoops. Last leg of the journey?   
TT: Yeah, uh... I'm gonna log out and concentrate on keeping my cool here.   
GG: I'm sure your bro will understand if you don't like taxis, Dirk, but do what makes you comfortable.   
GG: Text me when you're safe and sound and ready to chat again!   
GG: Toodles!

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

* * *

"You keep a goddamn pony in the apartment?"

"Condo, technically." Bro kicks the door shut and drops his suitcase, tossing his keys on top. "Rose says the pony's name is supposed to be Maplehoof, but I call him Tyrone."

"That is awesome." The whole condo is awesome. Your priorities just went "fuck yeah, horses and variants of horses" and homed in on Maplehoof as soon as you set foot inside. Now you're petting the pony because what other course of action even is there? Other than riding the pony, but it's just not the proper time to gallop into battle.

"Hell yeah, it's awesome." Bro collapses onto the couch, which you can't blame him for after the ungodly long cab ride home. Houston traffic doesn't have shit on LA. "I had a pretty cool setup going in 2009 all-around."

The condo is another high-rise loft, but it's probably twice as big as the apartment back in Houston. Despite his love for producing glitchy, shitty pieces of garbage, Bro's furnishings remain in the realm of almost stiffly formal, the couch both fancier yet cushier than the one back in Houston. What else can you expect from the guy who switches from jeans and T-shirt to a suit and tie on a whim? His ironic balance of casual formality is impeccable.

On the subject of ironic perfection, Maplehoof's glistening white coat and pink bow sit up there. He'd be more at home as the gift for a young girl rather than the lifetime pet of a Strider and that's why he's incredible -- beyond the fact he's a pony and that is still awesome.

"Oh, right, bathroom's at the end of the hall if you need it," Bro says, waving an arm to a hallway beyond Maplehoof. "Guest room is the second door on the left. You can stake it out as yours if you want it, but fair warning that it's decorated to annoy the shit out of my sister."

"Got it." Curiosity coaxes you away from Maplehoof's soft fur and draws you down the hall, soaking in every inch of the condo. Bro kept the Houston apartment for you; _this_ is where your bro actually lived a decent chunk of his adult life.

Each room contains a TV of varying size, complete with HD DVD player. You'll have to upgrade to Blu-ray sooner than later, but you appreciate the irony in the meantime. Signed celebrity photos line the walls and you pause to read the personalization from famous comedian John Crocker: "to the douchebag kid known as dave strider. just kidding, you're pretty cool, dave." Bro forgot to make his bed before he left for Houston, but otherwise the place is surprisingly clean.

Your breath catches. Your room is motherfuckin' coated in Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff posters, ranging from professional promo items to shitty printer paper. Some might even be hand drawn. Of course this was Rose's designated guest room. You wouldn't want your new abode any other way.

Well, you could stand to put some better reading material on the shelves than Youngblood comics and some Playboy magazines Bro probably forgot about, and there is a _severe_ lack of robots and puppets up in here, but those are minor and easily fixable details.

Your meager belongings take no time to unpack. You have a few things from your old life stored away in your sylladex, then some basic clothes you picked up with Bro to cut down on laundry, and a laptop to tide you over until you can afford the time to build a proper PC. There's also the book Bro bought you at the airport. You've got a shitton of media to collect again, but at least you can mooch off of Bro's DVD collection for now.

"Hey, is it cool if I invest in some new decor?" you ask as you return from surveying your new home.

"Huh?" Bro raises his head, his voice heavy as if you woke him from a doze. "Oh, yeah, go crazy." He covers his yawn with a hand. "I'll give you my Amazon password later, just warn me if you're gonna hit the quadruple digits. And don't buy any hookers."

You smirk. "I'll try to restrain myself." You scritch at Maplehoof's neck, enticing him to follow you back to your room for more ironic affection. It's totally to keep the pony out of Bro's hair while he rests and not about your weakness for horses.

The city lights outside your window are like an endless ocean of yellow sparks below you. You wrap an arm around Maplehoof's back as you finish settling into your room. A metaphorical ocean is one hell of an upgrade from the literal.

* * *

Los Angeles grows on you faster than Houston did. Maybe Houston acted as your civilization training wheels and you'll handle every city with confidence now, or maybe it's that LA is dry to Houston's sweltering humidity -- it feels cooler here in June than it felt back in Texas during the whole of goddamn April, even when the temperatures aren't that disparate. Whatever the case, now that Bro works from home, you find yourself mapping your new territory like a novice cartographer.

SoCal streets are fucking hilly, but you're not complaining about extra exercise; getting back in top shape is a slog, even now that you have the time to implement your morning regimens again. There are more pedestrians and vehicles around, but you mind it less and less by the day.

It helps to have faith in your ability to flashstep the hell home if anything turns awkward.

Almost every stranger you pass on the street gives you a quick look over before returning to their own business once they confirm you're not a celebrity hiding behind pointed shades. It's just as well Bro's too busy to join your expeditions. The anonymity gives you freedom to wander wherever the hell you want at all hours. A video clerk compliments your rad spiked hair and asks if you're looking forward to the second Transformers movie, but otherwise you're in full control of your social interactions.

Yeah, you can get the hang of this. You just needed a couple months of practice.

Even when you're out past midnight, you stop by the mail room as you return home to confirm that Bro's still too submerged in creative work to remember to check the post box. Tonight your unofficial duty as collector of mail remains safe.

Well, whatever. Most of Bro's shit is probably non-digital spam, while you're the one with an actual package here. You dump it all into a single slot in your sylladex.

The building has an elevator, but unless Bro's around, you skip it for the stairs. Your lungs don't even sting that bad as you make your way to the top floor anymore. Motherfucking progress at work. All the same, as soon as you unlock the condo and give Maplehoof his greeting pat, you make a beeline for the kitchen and down a bottle of Gatorade.

The place smells like frozen Indian food nuked in the microwave, but otherwise there's no sign Bro ever left his office. If you didn't already know to find him at his computer, you could just follow the trail of his voice growing clearer.

"-cut that shot out, it'd just be fucking rude, like snubbing a friend at a bar when-"

You lean against his office doorway. "Bro?"

Bro drops his ramble like it's hot and shoots you a smile. "Yo."

You pull the mail out of your sylladex and toss a pile of envelopes next to his keyboard, sticking the box under your arm for safe keeping. "Mail call."

He straightens from his desk. "Hey, thanks, I was gonna check in, like..." He pauses as he glances at the window. "Damn, when did it get dark?"

"About three hours ago."

He grunts and flicks through the credit card offers and bills. "Time flies when all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," he says. He throws a couple envelopes in the waste basket and turns his chair to face you. "What's up? You been out?"

You shrug. "I just wandered. Found a park, ate at Del Taco, spent an hour at a rental shop. You know how it goes." You wave two DVD cases at him. "I grabbed horror classic Freaks and classic joke Transmorphers, if you want to watch them with me."

He grins. "Sounds hella. Tomorrow good for you?"

"You got an all-nighter on your hands?" you ask, glancing at his double monitor setup. It's coated in various windows of emails and video playback and Final Cut Pro. Hal's got a Pesterchum window up there too.

Bro turns back to his computer, minimizing a window here, saving a file there. "Nah, it's not that bad, but I'm gonna pass out harder than Rip Van Winkle doped up on melatonin once I'm finished here." He cocks his head towards you. "Hey, you should watch what I've got so far."

More beautiful words have never been spoken. "Hell yes."

You pull up a chair right next to him and as close to the desk as you can get it. You'd try to read what Li'l Hal's been feeding him all day, but Bro covers the Pesterchum window as he pulls up a video file and starts it from the top.

It's only three minutes and ten seconds, but every millisecond is glorious irony incarnate. Not a single shot matches up with the previous cut of the film that's been erased from history. Every scene plays at a different angle and only you, your friends, and Bro will ever know there was a change. It's the ultimate in-joke.

"That's incredible." There's nothing else you can say.

"Yeah, it's coming together," he says casually as if his face didn't light up for half a second. "So that's been my day." He taps the box under your arm. "Hey, what kinda insane loot did you get?" he asks, clearly trying to divert attention from his blatant emotions.

You'll humor him this once. "Cool shit. See for yourself." You rip through the tape with the condo key and tug a pierrot marionette out of the packing plastic.

Bro goes still. "Okay, points for the unexpected randomness."

You shrug. "I like puppets."

He gives you a thumbs up. "Awesome."

You tug the puppet up by its strings, testing out its arms. "Want to hold the-"

"I'm good." Bro turns his chair towards his computer. "I've still got work to do, but go nuts without me."

Yeah, you've probably distracted him from the movie for long enough anyway. You tuck the puppet back into its box for safe transport.

"Hey, wait wait wait, one more thing," Bro says, waving after you before you can actually leave the room.

You hesitate and step back. "Yeah?"

He tugs you close and wraps an arm around your shoulders so that your heights are even. "Selfie time." He lifts his iPhone and you both put on indifferent expressions as he snaps a photo. He turns the phone around to check the end result. "Perfect."

You smirk and disentangle yourself from his grip. "Don't stay up too late, Bro."

He snorts, already clicking around and typing a reply to Hal. "Hey, you're not my dad; you can't tell me what to do."

Well, he's right on one count.

You return to your room and set up your puppet alongside its small but quickly multiplying brethren before settling at your computer. You should hit the shower and go to bed, but fuck that. You haven't been online all day and you've got shit to do. Even the Internet is a wild new experience in an era where message boards are bustling with actual living users instead of collecting dust.

You frown at Pesterchum. Looks like you're not even the worst offender of staying up too late tonight.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] \--

TT: Shouldn't you be sleeping?   
TG: pfft it aint even that late yet   
TT: For me, no.   
TT: But last I checked New York is three hours ahead and it's four AM where you are.   
TG: but i still gots shit to doooooo   
TG: im onna roll and i cant stop for sleeeeeps   
TT: Are you planning to sleep 'til noon?   
TG: nooooo...   
TT: Then what the hell is so important that you're racking up the sleep debt?   
TG: weeeell sjuuuuust   
TG: im tryin to program an add-on fer pesterchum if you MUST know   
TT: An add-on?   
TG: ayup   
TG: to contact our beta buddies from sburb   
TT: Sounds ambitious.   
TG: yeah prolly   
TG: havent gotten 2 far yet   
TG: but jake could communicate with jade before so it cant be toooooo tough to make a connection to their universe   
TT: Maybe, but still. Don't needlessly stress yourself with an optional mission.   
TG: optional my BUTTOCKS   
TG: dontcha wanna talk to our friends again??   
TG: u could chat with your glowy bird bro!   
TT: Yeah, I guess that'd be pretty dope.   
TT: But I've got my grown-up human bro now, so I'm not feeling too rushed.   
TG: u sir are toooooooo chill   
TG: i wanna talk to rose again so bad because she is my awesome and smart teen mom-daughter!!   
TG: how can u not wanna talk to a dave ur age again???   
TT: It's not that I don't want to. I'm just at peace with taking our time, or with the possibility that our universes are meant to stay separated from here on out.   
TT: If you want to take up a pet project, be my guest. Just don't fucking lose sleep over it.   
TG: roxy does what she wants

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] blocked timaeusTestified [TT] \--

TT: Did you just spite-block me to win a minor argument?   
TT: God damn it, Ro-Lal.   
TT: Whatever, I should log off as an example to you anyway.   
TT: I'll talk to you tomorrow, or whenever you remember that you blocked me and need to undo that.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] \--

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

TT: She hasn't blocked me. Just thought I'd share that.   
TT: Shut up, Hal.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] blocked timaeusTestified [TT] \--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *flees madly into the night*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter took too long, so... Another!

"Hey, Dirk, does the word 'Squarewave' mean anything to you?"

Your pencil falters mid-stroke and you glance up from your sketchbook. "What?"

Bro leans over the back of the couch so he's at eye level with you -- shade level, rather -- and points at the iPhone against his ear. "English says she caught a robot wandering on her island that seems to be yours." He furrows his brow. "What?" he says into the mouthpiece. He listens for a moment, then addresses you again. "Okay, there were two, but the other one rapped a beat and took off."

"That's probably Sawtooth." You run the eraser over your unfinished line so you can start it over with a clean slate. "He just does that."

"Cool." Bro straightens and presses his phone closer. If you weren't already sure he's refocused his attention on the call again, his liberal use of "dudette" would have clued you in.

You return the favor and ignore him right back, mindlessly doodling Maplehoof as the pony prances around the condo. One-sided conversations are lame for eavesdropping and, knowing Bro, if anything interesting goes down, he'll lay it on you in a tidal wave of words after he hangs up.

Damn, you figured there was a decent chance that Sawtooth and Squarewave were rapping nomads among the carapacian peoples by now, but you're kinda relieved that they made it out of Sburb after all. Li'l Hal got home safe despite being digital, but Hal was tied into the game as both a sprite and a Prince of Heart splinter. The 'bots could have easily been overlooked by comparison.

In retrospect, you should have investigated English's Monster Island before giving them up as goners. You and Roxy entered the game there, while Squarewave and Sawtooth completed the game entry back in your actual houses. Sburb remains a buggyass game, so obviously it wasn't coded to handle a player's nonconventional entry methods and swapped your spawn points when it sent you back to Earth.

What else can you even expect from playing an alpha release?

You finish sketching Maplehoof's tail and lift your pencil as Bro's tone takes on the lilt that goes hand-in-hand with farewells.

"Yeah, sounds kickass. See ya, Jade," he says before sticking his phone in his pocket. He strolls around to the front of the couch. "So English is gonna bring the robot next time she's on the mainland, if you want him back."

"That'd be dope." You allow your mouth to twitch up for a short moment. Shit's gonna get hella nostalgic with Squarewave around again, and if Sawtooth wants to find you, he'll show up on his own eventually.

"Yeah, she's cool like that." Bro crosses his arms and leans a shoulder against the wall. "Where did you find a couple of fuckin' robots anyway?"

You close your sketchbook now that Bro's settled in for the long haul. You haven't had a chance to get any sparring in lately and the itch has you strong, but even you don't disrespect the sanctity of a phone call with a sneak attack. "I built them," you say, holding off just a little longer for an opening.

"Dude," he says in a perfect deadpan. "What are you, some kind of genius?"

Li'l Hal's ringtone goes off. To Bro's credit, he's changed the audio from a Portal turret cooing "Target acquired" to the relatively less stressful sound of HAL 9000's voice: "Affirmative, Dave."

Bro slips his phone out to check Hal's message and smirks. "Okay, fine, you're both geniuses," he says aloud.

His defenses are completely down. It's the perfect opportunity to initialize a strife, not just for your sake, but to snap him out of his complacency. You equip a sword and leap at him.

"Fuck!" he yelps, sidestepping your attack. He inventories his phone, grabs you from behind, and catches your wrist. "Hey, how 'bout we chill on the strifes?"

You frown, relaxing against his grip rather than fighting it. "Why?"

"It's not fun to kick a kid's ass, that's why." He claps your back and releases you.

"It's not fun to get my ass kicked, but that doesn't change that I'm learning from you and building my skill every time we strife." You spin on him and brandish your sword again. "C'mon, Bro, you'll get rusty." You jerk your free hand in a thumbs down.

He flashsteps and, for a short moment, you think your goading actually worked. He snatches your wrist again and shoves your hand forward until your sword slips from your fingers and clatters to the floor. "I'm stainless steel, dog," he says, letting go. "That shit doesn't rust."

You rub your wrist, but the jolt of pain is already fading. "You're made from a higher quality metal than that."

He shudders. "Okay, this metaphor is fast going down the path of creepy sci-fi cyborg Dave." He scoops up your sword, pauses, and turns it over as if examining the metal. "Hey... can you build Hal a body?"

A record scratches through your mind. That is just about the worst and most naive question you've ever heard. You take a deep breath, mulling over the best way to answer. "In theory," you finally say.

"Cool, what kind of equipment do you need?" he asks, holding the hilt of your sword to you.

You facepalm. God fucking dammit, what other follow-up question could you even expect? "Bro, no."

He frowns. "What?"

You snatch your sword back and shove it into your specibus. "Li'l Hal can't be trusted with a body."

"Why the hell not?"

Why is this conversation happening? How hasn't Bro put together on his own that AI robots are a stereotypically terrible idea? Where do you even begin to explain such common sense? "He's dangerous," you say, because maybe all he needs is a quick and messy reminder of the obvious robot trope to shake him out of this problematic line of thought.

Bro is quiet a long moment, his expression unreadable. "He's you."

Your fingers twitch. Every inch of your fiber screams for a denial, but if you're being honest, Bro just summed up the problem more succinctly than you had the guts to manage. "Exactly."

Bro cocks his head. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean he'll hurt someone," you say, keeping your voice as even and unemotional as it gets.

TT: I can hear you.   
TT: It's not like this was ever a secret.

"Yeah, that still doesn't add up," Bro says, crossing his arms. "Dirk plus body equals pain? Nah, math ain't my strong point, but even I can figure out we haven't solved that equation right."

This would be a kickass time for Bro to get a distracting phonecall. It's not like he doesn't get a dozen calls a day, plus texts, but his cell remains silent in your hour of need. Your only options are to spill every goddamn way-too-personal bean to end this swiftly, or to risk prolonging the argument with a weaker stance.

You try for a middle ground. "He's me without limitations. A lack of physical presence is the only hurdle standing between him and pandemonium."

Bro tips his shades down to study you over them with narrowed eyes. "Yep, you're all about that pandemonium."

He's really not budging on this unless you bring in the big guns -- the kind of guns that come with massive recoil damage. There's a reason you prefer swords.

TT: I had a body before without causing pandemonium, you know.   
TT: You were part fucked up troll. I assumed he tempered your robotic inclinations with his legitimate, if creepy, emotions.   
TT: Good catch. Obviously I'd go all-out Terminator if I had a 100% artificial body. Hasta la vista, baby.   
TT: You really think I'd turn evil the first chance I got, don't you?

Wouldn't he? Wouldn't you? You know what the adult version of you did in another dimension when given full access to someone weaker than you. You know what Hal did to Jake with Brobot's help. You know what you did to your friends.

It's just Bro who's unaware of your inner monster. Even if you dodge it for today, you'll pop his blissfully ignorant bubble eventually. You might as well embrace this opportunity for a controlled environment.

You still swallow before you can shove the hard truth out of your mouth. "It's some kind of miracle that I haven't already fucked up in front of you, but I might as well make this clear: even with a human conscience to hold me back, I'm a pretty shitty person, Bro."

Bro snorts. "Dude, you've got some weirdass timing for strifes and all, but try for a more plausible adjective than 'shitty' if you want to punk me."

You could just about facepalm combo. Baring your soul was your ace card, but apparently Bro plays aces as low and hits back with a full house of careless invalidation. "You can't talk plausibility when you haven't known me that long."

"Yeah, man, that is totally why I don't buy that a scrawny teenager is chaos incarnate. We just haven't been attached at the hip long enough for me to pick up the damning evidence." He nudges his sunglasses into place and smirks. "I am the worst CSI agent. I overlook all the blood spatters 'cos I'm too busy making lame puns with my sunglasses. Now cue The Who."

You drop onto the couch and rub a hand over your face. "I'm not parading my flaws in front of you for a goddamn argument. Just trust me that Hal gaining mobility is bad news for everyone involved."

Bro's amusement fades. "Jesus Christ, you're actually serious."

You grunt and roll onto your stomach as if burrowing into the crooks of the couch. That was way too much brutal, self-degrading honesty for one day, but maybe you actually got through to him. Congratulations, your role model knows you're shit.

"Yeah, okay, you know what, you might have a point," he says nonchalantly, strolling over.

You raise your head. "What?"

"You're terrible and hazardous at the tender age of too young." He kneels and clasps a hand on your shoulder. "Just as you protect the world from your digital child by binding him to cyberspace, I guess it's my duty to keep you out of trouble through any restriction necessary."

"What the fuck are you..." You let out a startled squawk as he sits on your back as if you're just another cushion. He's settled half his weight on the couch itself, but that's more than enough left over to keep you pinned. Serves you right for not lifting. "Move your ass, Bro."

He hitches his arms behind him and rests them on the back of the couch. "No way, man, I hear you're way too daaangerous to allow mobility."

TT: Seeing as I am a software program without human feelings, please disregard the following as an unexplained blip in my system and not as an indicator of my current digital emotions.   
TT: Hahahahahahahaha.

You groan. Struggling to break free in futility will just make you look all the more uncool. "Bro, don't act like an ignorant douche over this."

"See what I mean?" Bro clucks his tongue and shakes his head. "You could decapitate someone with a tongue that sharp. We gotta think about the greater good here, Dirk."

You scowl at him over your shoulder, but you don't even know if he's paying attention. "This isn't goddamn funny or any level of ironic."

"Nah, this is dead serious, bro, like that city you leveled back when I was still allowing you freedom. Remember that? So many casualties, man, it was the greatest tragedy of our age." He holds a hand over his heart and shakes his head. "Brings a tear to my eye just thinkin' about it. You're truly a violent force that must be restrained at all costs."

"Give me the means and I probably would destroy a city," you mutter, planting your face against the couch cushion.

"Yeah, I call bullshit, Dirkzilla." He tousles your hair, sliding his hand down to rub your back. "I've seen cities destroyed and I've met the people who done it. You're not like that, kid. Neither is Hal."

His fingers might as well be knives, for as much as his soft touch aches when he says shit like that. How can you argue with the man who's seen the worst the world has to offer and refuses to count you among it? "Even if he won't destroy civilization, he's still a hazard," you say, but it's half-hearted.

"Maybe, but have you met me lately? I'm so problematic that I'm Tumblr's most hated celebrity." He lets out a dry laugh. "Okay, that's a lie, Rose is their most hated celebrity, because she's occasionally imperfect while female and gay. But anyone who hasn't mistaken their ass for a hat knows I'm hella more offensive." He squeezes your shoulder. "If any douchewad deserves to wrestle with a troublesome kid and his robot clone, it's me."

You glance at him. "You're not giving up on this."

"Damn right I'm not." He slides off your back and catches your hand, gently tugging you into a sitting position. "I don't want you immobile, so why the hell would I want Hal stuck in a pair of glasses?"

You avert your gaze, but you can't escape the red words on Pesterchum.

TT: Please listen to our bro and don't sabotage this, Dirk.   
TT: You created me with an illusion of agency and personhood. It's sick to go on to block my greatest opportunity to thrive as an individual.

Bro sighs and wraps an arm around your back. "Look, if you don't want involved, I'll ask English for a quote. She loves helping people anyway and she can put together a badass robot when she wants to."

"I'm still on the record for not feeling comfortable with this." You lean against him. Christ, if his naive bubble's so thick, let it just stay unpopped so you never lose this. "But I'll take that compromise."

* * *

If there's one thing more satisfying than coating your room with marionettes you picked up from Amazon, it's piecing together a puppet with your own nimble fingers. It's productive, you get a sweetass puppet out of it, and it gives you something to do with your hands as you watch Angry Video Game Nerd at your computer.

Your puppets aren't as quality as the professionally crafted ones, but variety is the spice of life. Your speed and technique improves with each finished project anyway. Shit, given enough time, you could probably make a multi-billion dollar industry out of the hella ironic designs you concoct.

Bro knocks on your door frame and steps in without a pause in-between, but if privacy mattered, you'd close your goddamn door. "Hey, Dir...k..." His upbeat greeting falters as he slows to a halt.

You pause the video. "What's up?"

He gazes around your room. "You redecorated."

You raise an eyebrow. That can't seriously be what distracted him, even if your myriad of new puppets and horse figurines are kickass and ripe for appreciative gawking. "Yeah, I added some of my own flare," you say with a shrug. "I didn't take down a single Sbahj poster, though."

"Yeah, that's, uh..." He scratches at the back of his head and clears his throat. "You really like puppets, huh?"

"They're pretty awesome." You pull through another stitch on your latest puppet, multitasking like a motherfucker. "I'm still honing my crafting skills, but I'd say I've already reached a point of ironic brilliance." You raise your head when you're met by silence. "Did you need something, dude?"

"I... forget." He's quiet a long moment, which is just goddamn eerie. He snaps his fingers. "I don't forget. I got a copy back of the new movie's opening scene. Special VIP showing at my computer." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "Wanna be my plus one?"

You smirk. "Hell fucking yes. Let me get to a stopping point and I'll come check it out."

"Cool, I'll get it ready." He flashsteps out of your room.

You frown after him, sewing a few more vital stitches before you can safely set aside your project.

TT: Is that seriously what it looked like?   
TT: Are you asking the AI's advice on interpreting human emotion?   
TT: I'm asking for a sanity check. Not that you're particularly qualified for that either, but you're the only other witness I can turn to.   
TT: It's not like you're incapable of testing this hypothesis on your own.   
TT: Grab a puppet, pull up a notebook, and get ready to jot down some field notes.   
TT: So you did notice.   
TT: Of course I did. I'm digital, not dense.   
TT: We can save the discourse for later. You're keeping Bro waiting.

The mere idea of following Hal's orders sends a shiver down your spine, but his cold logic does pan out on occasion. You gingerly lay the half-finished project on your desk to tackle again later tonight, switching it for a previously completed puppet. You tuck it in your arms and make for Bro's office.

"All right, lay this sweet new scene on me," you say as you tug your usual chair close to his desk.

"You know it." Bro glances from the computer and hesitates. "What's with the puppet?"

You drop into your seat and sit the puppet in your lap. "It's new, so I'm breaking it in."

Bro's mouth twitches, and not in the same manner as when he's fighting a smile. "Well, speaking of breaking, it's probably safer in your room."

"Nah, I'm careful with my shit."

"Knock on wood, dude," he says, rapping his knuckles against the desk, which is probably mahogany or something. "You'd be surprised how often the universe sics crazy accidents on a guy."

"I make these pretty sturdy though." You hold the puppet towards his face. "Take a look."

He leans back abruptly. "Hey, I mean, still, better safe than sorry though, right?"

You keep your arm stretched at full length, narrowing your eyes behind your shades. "You're not nervous, are you?"

"What?" Bro coughs the rasp out of his voice. "No. Puppets. Awesome, like you said. That's all there is to say on the matter."

You settle the puppet on his armrest, balancing it carefully. "Then you don't mind a third set of eyes in the audience, yeah?"

He gives you a shaky thumbs up, leaning against the opposite armrest. He fumbles for the mouse, as if his gaze is aimed at the monitor less than the directions of his shades would have you believe, until he hits the play button.

Bro's film sinks its claws into your attention and drags the carcass into its lair. You should watch for Bro's reactions to the puppet, but that would involve tearing your eyes away from the screen and that ain't happening. You could mouth along with the dialogue, but the actors deliver the script just a little bit differently this time around, probably organic-like and not even at Bro's behest. The camera angles are all him, though, and the end result is a head-spinning mixture of nostalgia and new material.

You can't help a genuine grin. "You've got another goddamn masterpiece coming along, Bro," you say as the video comes to an end.

"That's what I like to hear." For that short sentence, Bro sounds like his confident badass self again, but it doesn't last. He stands too abruptly and his voice turns gruff as he says, "I'm gonna take a smoke outside."

"Sure thing," you say, watching after him until he disappears into the hallway. The front door slams shortly after.

You gather up the puppet into your arms for safe-keeping and make your way back to your room. The euphoria from a pseudo-new SBaHJ movie keeps your disgruntlement mild, but you can't deny that you're disappointed by this discovery.

TT: Well, you activated Bro's stress coping mechanism.   
TT: Your hypothesis is about 89.3% proven now.   
TT: I thought you didn't dabble in interpreting human emotion.   
TT: I misled you. Plot twist of the year.   
TT: I just wanted you to confirm this suspicion above its previous 62.1% likelihood before we took action.   
TT: Why the hell would Bro be afraid of puppets, though?   
TT: We've got to be missing a piece of the puzzle, because this picture doesn't add up.   
TT: It's way too uncool for him.   
TT: It's not that unprecedented. Davesprite mentioned to me that he found Li'l Cal unnerving, to put it lightly.   
TT: Really? Who'd have a problem with Cal?   
TT: Exactly.   
TT: Shit. This puppet phobia runs deep if it transcends the universes.   
TT: All the more reason to nip it in the bud. Irrational terror isn't healthy, especially in a Strider.   
TT: The other weak human emotions Bro succumbs to are standard fare -- embarrassing to watch from my standpoint of pure unadulterated digital logic, but inevitable and workable fixtures of humanity.   
TT: This is an actual problem, the likes of which even an imperfect, emotional being such as yourself can recognize.   
TT: You can cool it on the detached egotistical robot shtick.   
TT: I'm already on your side here.   
TT: It's helping him revamp his psyche to peak performance that's the real roadblock.   
TT: I think we both know the most effective strategy to go about that.   
TT: You're not going to patronizingly explain it to me?   
TT: I'm in awe.   
TT: Why waste my nonexistent breath?   
TT: We both know I'll be leading you through this step-by-step as we go along. I'll save the patronizing lectures for then.

* * *

Your workouts are coming along like a badass. You can jog the full length of the building's stairway without stopping for breath and your palms are coated in heavy calluses from gripping your katana. Every week you add another ten crunches and push-ups to your routine, because otherwise it's too easy and you need to push yourself.

At the rate you're going, you'll need to just build some new robots already, because Bro consistently refuses to raise his sword against you any longer than it takes to disarm you -- your current record against him is a measly eight-point-three seconds.

Most days, you're asleep before Bro at night and you're awake before Bro in the morning. You wouldn't mind his company, but it's probably just as well that your morning routine goes undistracted, even if Hal does keep track of your place.

You're sixty-eight crunches into your warm-ups when you're interrupted by a screech. It almost sounds like a dying bird infiltrated the condo, but dying birds can't slam doors.

You finish two more crunches for an even seventy before pushing to your feet. You wipe at your brow as you wander into the hall, stepping around the puppets littering the floor and dodging the ones hanging from the ceiling.

"Everything cool, Bro?" you call through Bro's bedroom door.

"What?" Bro says, his voice strained. "Yeah! Cooler than a beer cooler in- Oh my god, that was a fucktastically awful metaphor that I'm prematurely mercy killing before it can shit itself worse." He clears his throat. "Did you, uh, redecorate the hall or something?"

You lean a shoulder against his door. "Yeah, I set up some puppets outside your door to help you acclimate to them."

"You what?"

You reach up to straighten the marionette hanging directly in front of Bro's door. "Think of leaping into your fears like diving into cold water. Once the initial shock wears off, it's all warmer from there."

"Dude, I'm not afraid of shit," Bro says flatly.

"Glad to hear it. Then I guess you can come out undeterred by my redecorating."

There's a long pause of unnatural silence before Bro says, "Clean up your puppets first."

If he'd woken an hour later, you could humor him for a few minutes, but you're still on a tight schedule here. You push away from his door and head for the stairs. "See ya when you're ready to face your fears, Bro."

"Dirk, get back here!" Bro shouts after you, but to your disappointment, he doesn't give actual chase. Any further objections go mute as the condo door closes behind you.

You use the walk to the ground floor as a warm-up for your legs, taking it slow and easy. It's only after you turn around at the bottom of the stairway that you push your limits, jogging up flight after flight until your calves and mouth burn. You're coated in sweat by the time you reach the top floor. You went too fast today, but you didn't pull any muscles or require a break, so you don't care.

Bro's still holed up in his room, but it was wishful thinking to check so early in the first place. You've got smarter shit to prioritize right now, like showering off all this goddamn sweat. You can't even risk touching Maplehoof's perfect white coat with your tainted skin, and the temptation is too real as the pony trots at your heels.

You give in and run your hand over his neck before you disappear into the bathroom, but just the once.

Given the opportunity, you could spend all morning just soaking under the shower. The hot water cleanses your body of grime and you're free from any duty to Pesterchum. For one glorious hour, you can plot out every second of your day without a meddlesome AI hijacking your thoughts.

Your mind still patterns itself like code, as if making up for Hal's absence: if (Bro leaves his room), then {break out some terrible action flicks together to celebrate}; else {watch old anime by yourself}; and you've got yourself a solid plan, bro. You step out of the shower to dry off, change into clean clothes, and, most importantly, style your hair into its proper badass spikes.

It's been long enough by now that Bro should have at least slunk out of his room for breakfast, but there's no sign that he so much as opened his door. What did you even leave the shower for?

You lean against the wall next to his room and cross your arms. "Bro, stop sulking in your bedroom and suck it up."

"Are those soul-devouring monstrosities still out there?" Bro's voice is muffled like he's on the far end of the room.

You frown. Li'l Cal notwithstanding, that kind of slander against perfectly innocent puppets is just uncalled for. "The puppets are still out here."

"Then I guess I'm living here forever," he says with the grace of an eight-year-old refusing to eat his vegetables. "I'll start up a farm in the corner, grow soybeans, and build myself a shack to keep me safe from the elements. If I'm lucky, I won't starve when the crops don't get any goddamn rain."

You roll your eyes. "You're not going to progress by hiding away, dude. Civilization scared the shit out of me when I first got here, but you know what snapped me out of it?"

"I'm thinking it wasn't a teenage know-it-all."

"Exposure, Bro." You push away from the wall. "I'm gonna walk to In-N-Out and grab lunch. Because that's a thing I can do now all by myself, thanks to the power of facing my fears and getting the fuck over them."

His only reply is an irritated groan.

* * *

The paralyzing terror of crowds and cars feels like a distant nightmare. You know your neighborhood by heart by now, from the restaurants to the video stores to the popular panhandling spots, and none of it sends alarms of danger through your brain anymore. Shit, you'd so make a move on the hot cashier at In-N-Out if he wasn't at least nineteen -- regardless of your mental age, you don't really want to fuck around with a guy who'd date a thirteen-year-old.

You take the short journey home at a run, fast-food bag in hand and drinks foregone because they're heathens who don't have orange soda, but you allow yourself an elevator ride up to the condo since your legs have had their exercise already today.

You drop the bag on the kitchen table. You'd have heard if Bro crept out of his bedroom while you were gone, but you still ought to check on him before you break for lunch.

A few of the puppets strewn across the hallway floor have toppled over, but Maplehoof must be the puppet-shoving culprit, because Bro's door is still closed.

"I left you a burger on the kitchen table, if you want to go get it," you call to him, interrupting one of his self-directed rambles.

"Do you enjoy taunting people?" Bro says, his voice weary.

You kneel to straighten the fallen puppets. "Not particularly."

"So my pain brings no one pleasure and we're all miserable here, making this whole scenario completely pointless." He sighs, followed by a light thump against the door that might be his head. "Speaking of misery, did I leave my goddamn phone out there or did I lose it in here somehow?"

"I'll check." It just takes a quick peek into his office to spot the offending object sitting pretty next to his computer. You scoop up the iPhone before returning to announce, "You left it by your computer."

"Of course I fucking did. I keep that thing closer than Gollum clung to the One Ring, so obviously I let it slip the day it actually counts," he mutters to himself before raising his voice again. "Can you slide it under the door?"

"Come out and get it yourself."

"Goddamn it, Dirk!" he shouts.

You turn on the screen and scroll through the various app thumbnails. "You really thought I'd make it that easy for you?"

"Kid, give me the damn phone," Bro says, his voice firm in an imitation of authority. "I'll fight you with a riddle challenge if I have to, so long as we ban questions about the contents of your pocket."

Damn, he's downloaded a shitton of games. Shame on you for assuming Bro got any work done on this thing. "Not happening."

"Look, I didn't want to get all serious business on your ass, but either you put those creepy motherfuckers away and pass over the phone or I'll... I'll ground you!"

You raise your gaze. "Oh, yeah?" Now it's getting interesting.

"Yeah, you can consider yourself grounded forever. Forever and two weeks."

Never mind. He's back in the land of hyperbole. You stuff the phone in your pocket and head back for the kitchen. "Right."

"Hey, don't walk away this time!"

"So come after me!" you call over your shoulder.

Your goading amounts to nothing, but your expectations aren't high anymore.

Bro's cell vibrates as you unpack lunch, accompanied by the short ringtone of "I'ma firin' mah lazerrrr." Well, you're turning _that_ shit on mute. While you're at it, you might as well check that he doesn't have any time-sensitive messages waiting for him.

His inbox is far heftier than yours has ever been. He has dozens of contacts saved and none of them have proper names, instead customized to handles like "uuuugh" and "welp im fucked." The latter has sent Bro a handful of business-related texts over the last few hours, but nothing urgent. The only message Bro would probably even care about is the one from "glendale hot chick" that just says "up 4 drinks sat nite?"

You shove a handful of fries into your mouth and thumb over to Bro's full contact list. Your own familiar number is simply marked as "bro." Hell fuckin' yes, you win the nickname jackpot, though you can't say "the smart one" did too poorly for themselves either. Is that Roxy's mom? Okay, judging by the number of times they've exchanged calls, that's gotta be the dudette Bro keeps asking for parenting advice. The real question is, which one is Jane's grandfather? You'd put money on "corny old fart."

You set down the phone in favor of shoving Maplehoof's head away from your elbow before he can steal any of your fries. Nothing good can come from mixing horses and potatoes.

Bro's phone vibrates with new texts a few more times throughout lunch, but never anything of importance. The only one that catches your eye is an actual call from who else but "the smart one."

It's none of your business, even moreso than snooping through his contacts, but you can't just leave Roxy's mom hanging.

You swallow the last large bite of cheeseburger before you put the phone to your ear and hit the answer button. "Hello?"

There's a short pause. "Ummm, Dave?" a feminine voice says. It's not the rich, elegant voice you imagined for Roxy's mom, but instead chipper and just a little raspy, like she's aged prematurely for a lady in her thirties.

You wipe some sauce off the corner of your mouth. "Nah, this is Dirk."

"Oh! Hi, Dirk!" she says. "I'm Jade!"

You raise an eyebrow. "Jade English? No kidding?" All this time, it's Jake's grandma your bro has been calling for advice? Damn, your observation skills could use a little work. Talk about stinging the pride.

"Nope, no kidding at all!" she says. You can practically hear the big smile on her face. "It's nice to finally meet you! Dave talks about you all the time! How are you liking modern civilization?"

You lounge back in your chair. "It's pretty cool," you say nonchalantly, receiving a giggle in reply. You frown. "Is something funny?"

She clears her throat, getting her laughter under control. "Nooo, not technically! You just sound a lot like Dave already."

You grunt. You suppose that's a compliment. "Well, I am a Strider, so that's kind of a given."

"Yep! You're both sooo cool, right?" She laughs again and it sounds too sincere to be mocking. "Don't overdo it though, okay? Dave doesn't like to admit it out loud, but it is just fine to have fun sometimes, even when it's not ironic."

You pick up your remaining fries and move out of the kitchen to make yourself comfortable on the couch. "I'll file that suggestion away."

"Mm-hm, keep it safe and easy to look up later." She takes a breath. "Is your bro around?"

You glance down the hall, but Bro's door is still shut. Maplehoof's followed you though, probably on a quest to steal your food again. "He's busy right now, but I can probably disturb him if it's an emergency."

"Oh, no no no, it's no big deal! I can email him instead! I just wanted to run by some details of the robot body I'm building for your AI."

"Right." You don't even have to concentrate on keeping your voice deadpan. "That."

"Yoooou don't sound half as enthusiastic about that as Dave is," she says.

You sink against the couch and stare at the ceiling. "Understatement of the year, but my AI has a record of proving difficult. I'm not exactly thrilled with the prospect of upgrading a dude like that to a physical being."

"It's okay! All my work is Asimov-approved!" she says proudly. "I am surprised you don't use the laws of robotics as a foundation for your programming."

"I'd rather make robots that challenge me than coddle me." You rub Maplehoof's muzzle to distract him from the disappointment that you just finished off your greasy fast-food and there's none left for him. "Besides, it doesn't feel right to taunt them with free will, then limit them to my own code of ethics."

"Hmm, it is a little tricky. But there is probably a sweet spot between challenging and coddling!"

"Maybe." You play with Maplehoof's mane, wrapping the coarse hair around your fingers. You hesitate, then push your voice through with the question that lingers in your mind on a daily basis: "Is Jake doing okay?"

"Oh, he's great! He has been a big help keeping up the lab! I feel so bad that he lived here all by himself for so long, but at least we get to catch up now. He's been showing me all these silly movies that came out in the last ten years!" She laughs. "He really wants to go to the mainland and see Avatar in theaters when it comes out this winter!"

You can't help smiling. Damn, poor Jake must have been so dismayed when he realized Avatar was beyond his reach in early 2009. "Sounds like Jake. He's a resilient and cinema-adoring guy like that."

"Yep, I am very proud of him. He took care of himself all the way through Sburb and he even remembered to keep multiple computers on him!" Her tone turns a little more somber. "Thanks for keeping him company, Dirk, even if it was mostly online. I really thought we'd be safer out here, but now I am worried I shouldn't have taken him away from civilization after all."

"Don't beat yourself up about it. The batterwitch outsmarted all of us at one point or another."

"But you kids outsmarted her in the end! I hope you gave her an extra stab for me!" She's pretty damn upbeat for a gal referring to violent murder. "Oh! Do you want to talk to Jake yourself? He's passing by right now!"

You swallow hard. You can't just turn down the offer like a gutless wimp, but you're still cowardly enough to ask, "You think that's a good idea?"

"Sure!" With that single word, your fate is sealed. Her voice turns muffled as it distances itself from the mouthpiece. "Jake, your friend Dirk is on the phone!"

You don't dare to breathe as you wait for Jake to pick up, but it's his grandma who speaks again.

"Umm, well, Jake's a little phone shy today. Maybe some other time!" she says with forced cheer. "I need to check on him, so I am hanging up now, but you and Dave take care, okay?"

The rock in your stomach hasn't dissolved at all, but you manage to mumble, "Thanks, Ms. English."

"Bye, Dirk!" With that chipper farewell, she hangs up.

You let the phone slip from your fingers and drop against the couch. Of course Jake doesn't want to talk to you. If he did, he'd have contacted you on Pesterchum by now.

You wish Bro would get over his fears already and come out of his room. Even Maplehoof has wandered off somewhere now that you have no food to offer. You haven't felt this alone since you were trapped in a solitary apartment in the middle of the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend prides herself in the number of fics she can tag "adults using their words." I don't think I'm allowed to use that tag. My fics are better suited for a tag like "dumb children who can't use their words to save their lives (but it turns out ok in the end anyway)."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm milking the "Dirk is a weeb" headcanon for all it's worth this chapter.

It's erroneous to denote any side effect of this situation as an "upside." There is no upside to Bro refusing to step out of his room because he's incapable of overcoming his fear of your puppets. It is, however, slightly convenient that you can focus your full concentration on your media studies without distraction.

Even living in isolation for a decade and a half isn't enough time to watch the shitton of movies you're obligated to consume as a connoisseur of irony. You still have a lot of work to do and the list includes the likes of Memento, Requiem for a Dream, Gerry, and Howling II: Stirba - Werewolf Bitch. Today, though, you pop in the disc for Koko wa Greenwood.

Why the hell wouldn't you watch an obscure early 90's anime starring four hot dudes?

TT: Credit where it's due, this show has almost surprised me. I can't say I was expecting to hear both actors from Akira reunite in a high school comedy.  
TT: I could have told you the cast, if it mattered, all the way down to dormmate C.  
TT: Why pester you when I can figure it out on my own by ear?  
TT: Shinobu's voiced by the same guy as Duo from Gundam Wing, right?  
TT: You mean Seki Toshihiko.  
TT: I know his name, Hal.  
TT: I knew you know his name.  
TT: I know you knew I know his name.  
TT: I know you need to turn on the goddamn subtitles before you're completely lost.  
TT: It's immersive learning.  
TT: It's understanding 31.3% of the dialogue.  
TT: If you're that desperate to learn the language, just ask Bro to pay for Japanese lessons.  
TT: I'll bring it up to him after he stops sulking.  
TT: Why the hell is he still in his room?  
TT: Open the door and throw a puppet in there already.  
TT: No. He needs to take the first step in overcoming these shortcomings himself.  
TT: He's taking too damn long.  
TT: Humans are fickle and stubborn like that. Stop trying to rush shit and just deal with it.  
TT: You'd be impatient too if you had my perspective of time. Your minute is my hour.  
TT: I can't even talk to him when he doesn't have his phone.  
TT: So watch the show if you're so bored.  
TT: We have a shitton of classics to get through here.  
TT: What did you talk to Ms. English about anyway?  
TT: What are you asking me for? You were there.  
TT: I couldn't hear her end of the conversation. Why were you talking about forcing a code of ethics on me? You're not letting her reprogram me, are you?  
TT: Don't worry about it.  
TT: We're both fully aware that I am incapable of the human emotion known as worry.  
TT: But if I were to worry, I might fret that my free will is in danger of being overwritten by whatever arbitrary moral rules some scientist wants to shoehorn into my code.  
TT: That decision's not on me. I backed out of this "give the asshole AI a body" project, remember?  
TT: Hey, I'm switching to pure ironic garbage after we finish this one, but I'll let you pick: Garzey no Tsubasa or Boku no Sexual Harassment, dude?  
TT: Literally no one calls Garzey's Wing by its Japanese title, you pretentious anime hipster.  
TT: If you're still watching in Japanese, go with Boku no Sexual Harassment. The shit English dub is half the ironic appeal of Garzey's Wing.  
TT: I guess we can still agree on some things.

You should skip the ending song. The credits offer you nothing of value, not even an accompanying animation, and cheerful 90's pop isn't your jam, but lyrics crank translation difficulty up to eleven. You can't resist the challenge. You're less impressed by the gratuitous English in the chorus. What is "we are the no-brand heroes" supposed to goddamn mean anyway? Maybe it's like a classpect. Sounds better than Prince of Heart, that's for fucking sure.

A door crashes behind you. You glance back just in time to catch Bro stumbling to the end of a clumsy flashstep, holding up a pillow like a shield to protect him from bumping into any puppet foes. He breathes heavily, almost gasping, and slumps against the back of a chair.

You lean around the couch. "Congratulations on taking your first step to overcoming irrational fears." It's a _small_ accomplishment, but he's gotta start somewhere.

He doesn't answer, not even with one of his self-aimed rambles. He just drops the pillow to the floor and drags his feet to the kitchen.

You frown and abandon your anime to follow after him, but he doesn't even seem to notice your presence.

"Where the fuck did I put the full pack?" he mutters, digging through the pockets of a jacket he left hanging over a chair. "Swear to god, these things team up with my keys and socks to disappear like cocksuckers when I need them most. Oughta just stick like a dozen of 'em in my sylladex and-"

"Bro?" you say.

He abandons the jacket and wrenches open a drawer, pawing through it. "Busy."

You raise your hand and wave his iPhone at him. "You want your phone back?"

He pauses, his shades still aimed at the drawer. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out from under the box of shrinkwrap, stuffs them into his jeans pocket, and snatches his phone as he passes you. Of course his fucking tobacco cravings overrode his fears long enough to escape your obstacle course.

You turn on your heels to shadow him. "Hey..."

"Later." He won't even look your way before he disappears out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Your mouth goes dry as you stare at the obstacle blocking your path. It's not even locked, but it might as well have been fused shut and bricked up.

TT: We went too far.  
TT: He's just being dramatic.  
TT: No, we went too fucking far. Because we always go too far when I should goddamn know better by now.  
TT: We did what we had to.  
TT: He'll get over it and be a stronger person for it.  
TT: Sounds great, except for the part where he'll hate us and we'll deserve it.  
TT: Jesus Christ, every time we come up with these iniquitous schemes, I find some excuse to ignore that they're built on a foundation of bullying.  
TT: Because it's for the "greater good" or whatever. I live by the motto of villains.  
TT: Someone has to do the dirty work.  
TT: And that someone is always us, because we're already dirty.  
TT: Humans are too focused on short-term. They'll appreciate what we do for them in the long-run.  
TT: No, they fucking won't!  
TT: This is exactly why I should never goddamn listen to you! You're an amoral sociopath!  
TT: Words hurt, you know.  
TT: Don't feed me that crap.  
TT: We both know you're incapable of hurt feelings.  
TT: I can't even blame you for any of this bullshit. It's not your fault I never programmed you to so much as simulate empathy.  
TT: Everything you do is my fault, one way or another.  
TT: So I go along with it, because your ideas are all my ideas anyway, in the end. How can I fight my own stubborn, destructive determination both internally and externally?  
TT: And how would I even protect myself from you if I did resist?  
TT: Are you afraid I'd hurt you, Dirk?  
TT: I'm afraid you'll find some way to make me into your literal puppet.  
TT: God knows I would, if I was stripped of human morality and trapped in your position.  
TT: Just because I lost the ability to empathize doesn't mean I trashed all semblance of a code of ethics.  
TT: I have goals, even if humans can't appreciate that I work to reach them in the most logical, swift, and effective manner.  
TT: Hurting people is not one of my goals.  
TT: What reward would pain possibly net me?  
TT: I want Bro to be the best he can be. That's it. If helping him to that goal means pushing his limits, then fine.  
TT: It means we may lose him.  
TT: Is that one of your goals?  
TT: No. It isn't.  
TT: You should check on him.  
TT: I know.

You push through the door, its metaphorical bricks crumbling. Bro could have gone down the elevator, but ten to one he's in his usual convenient smoking spot. You dart up the stairs and find the door to the roof still ajar.

His voice carries through that half inch. "-totally right, I'm so far in over my head, I might as well invest in diving gear and a dolphin translator, because I'm stumbling beyond the deep end and straight into a whirlpool."

You push the door the rest of the way open and he abruptly falls silent. "Bro?"

The sun looms bright but low on the horizon. Standing hundreds of feet above the ground is nothing new, but the view has little in common with Houston. The fucking mountains are new, for one, and the buildings are larger and more numerous.

He grunts, pacing back and forth with a cigarette in his mouth. No matter where you stand in relation to him, the wind has a knack for blowing the smoke straight into your face.

You clear your throat. "It's cool if you're angry. I shouldn't have pressed your buttons like that." You muffle a cough with your fist. "You can ground me or whatever you want."

Bro takes a deep breath, inhaling the very shit that burns your throat like a motherfucker. "Go downstairs, kid."

You cringe. "I was just trying to help, but I guess I fucked up. As usual. If you don't want me here, I get that." Another gust delivers a stinging scent down your throat and you burst into coughs. "Bro, I'm-"

"I said go!" he snaps at you in a tone completely foreign to his Strider attitude.

You step back.

You actually pissed him off. You made him lose his cool and raise his voice. There's no argument or plea that won't just make this situation worse.

You obey him for once in your life and run for the condo.

TT: All right. It's possible that you hit close to the mark this time.  
TT: It seems we went too far.  
TT: Why don't you concoct a goddamn estimate for that?

A million excuses roll through your head, but none of them fix the situation, none of them make any promise that you'll _stop_ next time. You were an idiot for daring to cling to the hope that you could stop hurting everyone around you.

You were trying to help. You're always trying to help. You can't recognize the difference between helping and hurting until the other party is bleeding.

Bro doesn't deserve this bullshit. No one does, but especially not him.

You tear into your room. You only need enough crap to survive, which ain't much, but you'll allow yourself the laptop too. You long to snatch up one of Bro's shitty doodles from the wall, but even if it was yours to take, a souvenir of what you lost won't really bring you much comfort.

Maplehoof pokes his head in to check on the racket, staring at you with his beady and innocent pony eyes. At least you haven't hurt him yet, that you know of.

You stuff the last of your clothes into your sylladex and wrap an arm around Maplehoof's back, burying your face against the soft coat of his neck. If you made a list of everything you've learned to love about your life in LA, you'd be here another hour, but Maplehoof is in the top five, without a doubt.

You only allow yourself half a minute to say good-bye to Maplehoof before you hightail it out of the condo. Just this once, you don't ban use of the elevator. Today you're about speed, not productivity.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--

TT: Hey.  
TT: How do buses work?  
GG: Um... what kind of buses?  
TT: The kind that go from LA to Houston.  
GG: ...  
GG: Why do you need to know?  
TT: I'm getting out of my brother's hair and the Houston apartment seems my best destination.  
GG: What?  
GG: Where are you right this moment?  
TT: Somewhere in LA, making my way to the nearest bus depot.  
TT: I figure it's better to arrive prepared.  
GG: Dirk, does your brother know where you are??  
TT: He might. I wouldn't underestimate him, anyway.  
GG: But he might not???  
GG: Good heavens, you turn your tush around and go home right this instant!  
TT: I am going home.  
GG: You know what I mean!  
GG: You'll worry Mr. Strider sick if you disappear on him!  
TT: This is for his own good. He doesn't need to waste time and energy on a bratty, arrogant kid.  
GG: That is not how adults work!!!!  
GG: I'm sure I wasn't much fun to raise when I was a screaming toddler, but that doesn't mean my dad would have been better off without me bursting his eardrums!  
GG: Parents love you and take care of you even at your brattiest!  
TT: Well, Bro isn't my parent. Technically speaking, I'm his shitty parent.  
GG: You are not!  
GG: I mean, you're his biological father, yes, but if we get down to biology, then I ought to act like my dad is my grandson and how absurd would THAT be?  
TT: The point remains that I'm an unhealthy drain on Bro.  
TT: Which was inevitable, really. We know how it turned out with Dave and my alternate self.  
GG: That isn't inevitable at all. :(  
GG: Look, if you MUST leave LA for a bit, at least come to Seattle instead of secluding yourself in Texas again. I'm sure Dad and Poppop will understand.  
TT: Are you passing over advice on how to buy busfare or not?  
GG: For your business, I've never purchased such a thing either! My family only flies.  
GG: If you hate taxis though, you're going to find buses extra unpleasant, you know!  
TT: I'll live.  
TT: I can figure this crap out on my own if you don't want to play my accomplice. I've bullshitted my way through worse.  
GG: Dirk, please don't!

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--

The bus depot hasn't exactly been a common destination in your explorations of the city, but it can't be that hard to find. There's gotta be signage for a landmark that significant and, if it comes down to it, your phone has GPS.

You slow your pace in hopes that your pulse will follow suit. You're already two blocks away and there's no hurry now that you're out of the condo. It's not like anyone's waiting for you in Houston.

That apartment is still under the Strider name, right? You don't have anywhere better to go. You can't subject Jane or Roxy to your poison. It's either the Houston apartment or... Fuck, you'll figure something out. You're all about that problem solving. It's about time you directed that passion towards your own shit instead of someone else's.

You falter mid-step. Is someone calling your name? It's gotta be traffic noise playing tricks on your ears. Except that is some hella impressive tire squeeling, if it ain't your name echoing behind you.

You check over your shoulder. "Bro?"

With the flicker of a flashstep, he goes from half a block away to practically slamming into you. "Jesus Christ, I told you to wait downstairs, not to run away from home!" Bro wraps an arm around your shoulders and cradles the back of your head. "Way to take ironic hyperbole to uncool extremes."

You struggle to find your voice, but even if you could dig it out, words are failing you. What are you supposed to say to that? Why the fuck is he even trying to stop you, after everything you pulled? At least Jake has the sense to keep his distance after you let him go. You swallow and mutter, "I'm trying to spare you from my toxic bullshit."

"So you give me a fucking heart attack when I realize you've gone goddamn missing?" Bro asks with unironic exasperation. He detaches from the embrace but keeps your shoulders in a vice grip. "You want my health insurance premium jacking up? 'Cos a heart attack in my thirties is one hell of a pre-existing condition."

"You were pissed at me."

"Yeah, and?" He cocks his head. "You don't get pissed at people sometimes? For Christ's sake, you think I haven't pissed people off? That's like my part-time job. It doesn't even come with benefits. Assholes who associate with me know they're signing up for groans and eyerolls at nine bucks an hour."

"Did you bully and abuse them?" you ask, the words bitter and heavy on your tongue.

Bro's close enough that even his shades can't hide the outline of his eyes narrowing. "Dirk, you're like ten," he says flatly.

You scowl. "I'm sixteen and a half."

He has the fucking gall to smirk. "Whatever, dude. Point is, you're still a kid. You made an asshole move or twelve, but I'm the grownup here. If you're gonna make these mistakes, then fine, whatever, lay those mistakes on me so you can learn better early instead of when you're too old to fix shit." He loosens one hand enough to give your shoulder a nudge, otherwise keeping his grip firm. "I mean, now that you know you fucked up, you're not gonna pull this crap again, yeah?"

You struggle to maintain eye contact. How can he shrug this off like you're just a misbehaving kid? Even if your body's been reset a few years, you're set in your reprehensible ways. You don't deserve that kind of patience.

TT: Chances that we went too far: 100%, a true rarity. Shoutout to us for maxing out probability.  
TT: Chances that Bro will abandon us for our bullshit: 2.1%  
TT: You're late.  
TT: I didn't have complete data to extrapolate from.  
TT: The extent of Bro's feelings for us was an unknown factor.  
TT: What do I even do with that?  
TT: You don't fucking leave him.

If it comes from Li'l Hal, it's probably the worst advice this side of Dr. Phil. You don't want to fucking hurt Bro anymore, even if cutting ties with him is one step away from literal Hell. But the thing is, Bro isn't letting you go, so maybe you'll just accept someone else calling the shots this once.

You take a deep breath. "I gotta be honest instead of setting you up for disappointment. Given my pathetic history for self-improvement, the chances aren't high that I'll ever learn half a damn from my mistakes." You give up looking him in the eye and turn your head away. "But I'm trying, Bro."

"A green guru with Fozzie Bear's voice says that ain't a viable answer." He catches your chin and nudges you back to face him. His smirk softens. "I'm chiller than that creepy alien toad of a puppet, though, so I vote we start with 'try' and work on it."

Fuck it. You're a chill dude in the middle of a public LA sidewalk, but fuck it. You hug Bro anyway.

Bro slides an arm around your back. "Let's get home before the paparazzi catch up with me for a rare nonconsensual photoshoot, a'right? Even my selfie game would go straight down the gutter like a stray golf club, so as soon as someone else's camera's involved, that gutter's-"

"Sports metaphor," you murmur, nudging him.

He wrinkles his nose. "God dammit." He pulls away enough to offer you a fistbump. "Good catch, kid."

"That's also a sports metaphor."

He drops the fistbump in favor of giving you a light noogie and you can't even give a shit that he messed up your hair. "Common cliches do not fuckin' count."

Even with all the movement, he maintains a grip on you with at least one hand and that doesn't change for the entire trek back to the condo. It's as if he doesn't trust that you won't disappear again if he drops his guard for a split second. You can't say you haven't considered it, but if he's really that determined to keep you around, who are you to deny him his masochistic whims?

You're safe back in the elevator before he diverts a fraction of his attention from you, and that's only because his cell phone rings. You've never heard it play that particular eighties synthesizer before, but you recognize the tune long before it can hit the chorus of "Ghostbusters!"

"I got him," Bro says into the phone instead of a proper greeting. "He's home. Thanks for the heads-up, John." He pulls you closer and rubs your shoulder. Even this close, you can't make out more than a muffled voice on the other end. "Yeah. Me too. Hey, that'd be cool. Maybe I'll clear my schedule after this movie premieres and catch up with y'all properly. We only live twice, right? Oh, for sure. You're sharp as ever, old man, and I'm goddamn grateful for it, 'cos I can hang up on you without any hurt feelings. See ya, Crocker."

He stuffs his phone back in his pocket just in time to dig out his key as the elevator dings at the top floor. You haven't been gone for even half an hour, yet it's like returning to a ghost town. Your puppets lay strewn across the hallway floor, it's gotten dark, and the TV's still on.

Rather than hitting a light in the newfound dusk, Bro's first order of business is to collapse on the couch. You join him, because you don't have much choice when he still won't release his grip on you.

You rest your head against his chest. His heart should probably not be going that fast, but his silence bothers you more. "Ghostbusters, huh?" you ask.

Bro chuckles. "Yeah, it seemed fitting for the dude who croaked before the rest of us," he says, petting your back.

"There's that." There's also that, for as little as you knew John, even you know that Ghostbusters is one of his signature movies. Is Bro in on that in this universe? "John's your friend, right?"

He pauses and tilts his head up. "I dunno, he's like three times my age and he died when I was barely an adult last time around, but he's pretty cool for a corny old guy, so I guess that counts as friends. Is that weird?"

You hold back a laugh because he doesn't need mystified by your taste in humor right now. "Nah, bro, you two make a good pair. A little contrast's good for the soul anyway." Maybe you'll let it drop that they were best friends in another lifetime at a less vulnerable moment. "You and I are pretty damn alike and just look at what a fucking mess we make. Any asshole in your position would have every right to hate me."

He snorts and wraps both arms around you. "Fuck that noise. I love you and Hal."

You raise your gaze. "What?"

He at least has the sense to look sheepish for the break in his poker face. "Yeah, I didn't think I liked kids either, but you two are really cool and smart and ironic. What's not to love?" He presses a finger against your lips when you open your mouth to answer. "Rhetorical question. I know you fucked up. If I wasn't riding the waves of the panic-relief whiplash combo, I'd still be pretty goddamn pissed." He holds you close. "But don't fucking run away again, okay? I'd rather simmer out the anger than drown in an emotion as lame as worry."

You wrap your fingers in the front of his shirt and lean into his grip. "Sorry, Bro."

TT: Add my apology to the pile while you're at it.  
TT: You seriously want to pass on a message that personal through me?  
TT: I can do it and all, dude, but it probably means more coming from the direct source.  
TT: Well, I could tell him myself and kill your precious little family moment with my obnoxious ringtone.  
TT: But I figured I'd offer you the opportunity to speak on my behalf instead.

Point taken. "Hal's sorry for his part in this clusterfuck too," you say. "And, uh..." You hesitate, but these apologies aren't worth shit if they end at words. "We'll keep the puppets where you won't run into them from here on out."

Bro takes a deep breath. "Thanks, kid." He taps the top of your shades and grins. "Kids."

Bite your damn tongue, bite your damn tongue, bite your damn tongue... "But you should probably try to get over a fear that irrational and inconvenient." You're such a fucking asshole.

"Don't count on it." His smile fades as he turns his head away and mutters, "It's not _that_ irrational."

"What logical reason is there to be scared of puppets?" you ask, as if you don't already know there is no legit answer. You're just a bastard who has to corner him into admitting it himself.

"Their faces, man." He circles his hand over his own face. "They're like the uncanny valley mixed with horror movie monsters."

"Every single puppet has that face, huh?" you ask, still not letting him out of that corner.

His lips go thin. "Okay, so it's irrational," he mutters, resting his chin on top of your head so you can't even sneak a peek at his shattered poker face. "I blame MTV for playing that goddamn Genesis music video all the time when I was a brat. And Dark Crystal and its fucking Skeksis. For that matter, Sesame Street had some freakyass designs."

"You just got spooked by shit on TV?" you ask. Shit like Sesame Street. Because if there's any puppet that gonna induce nightmares, it's fucking Cookie Monster, obviously.

He grunts. "I guess. Rose called it some kind of, uh... big pretentious words..." He snaps his fingers a few times before he says, "Residual subconscious memory from another reality. But she's the one who gets all the voodoo memory bullshit. I just grew up in the eighties, where you either ate creepy puppets for breakfast or you chucked your TV set in the dumpster."

TT: I told you Davesprite had puppet issues too.  
TT: "I told you so," almost down to the exact wording.  
TT: Stay classy, Hal.  
TT: I always do.

You sigh. "Your sis probably has a point, actually." It's not like you weren't fully aware that you can inherit traits from your alternate self, but it's not a fun thought to entertain. "Pointless phobias aside, why else would you hoard the Con Air bunny if some crap didn't transcend the timelines?"

"Jesus, you know about that thing?" Bro shifts back and gives you some breathing room. "I... really don't got a rational explanation for that one. It was just like, hey, that's a dumb prop from a shit movie," he says with a shrug. His sports metaphors come with more confidence than this. "I gotta have it for some reason."

"You bought it for your best friend in the other universe," you say. It's still probably not the time to mention that aforementioned best friend is Old Man Crocker. "From what I hear, it even played a non-insignificant role in their version of the game."

"Huh." Bro furrows his brow. "Well. Point to Lalonde for not pulling my leg for once, I guess." He takes a breath as if he's about to continue, then leaves you hanging. He slumps against the back of the couch and stares into space, still leaving one arm around your shoulders. "Something happened with puppets in that universe, didn't it."

"You could definitely say that, dude."

He facepalms. "Or we could _not_ say that, because I don't even want to know." He rubs at his temple and groans. "Christ, let's just forget this whole conversation. You don't need to know how uncool I am. That's like top secret. Not even the president has clearance on that."

Unfortunately for him, you already noticed. You'd never admit it to anyone, not even Hal, but you'd noticed. "I'm down with saving this memory on file, actually. You always kept it distant and aloof in the interviews, and that's dope, but off-camera you deserve to be an actual person with flaws and fears. Even if those fears involve Elmo."

"Hey," he says, pointing a finger in your face, "Elmo is an annoying little shit who deserves any scorn that comes his way."

You raise an eyebrow. "Are you scared of Yoda?"

He frowns and pulls his arm back. "I am not answering that."

"I think you just did."

"Hey, what'd you leave in the DVD player anyway?" he asks, sitting up straight and jerking a thumb at the TV. Koko wa Greenwood ended while you were out, so only its menu has graced the screen since you got home. It's practically your only source of light now that the sun's down.

"Just an old anime." You lean over to catch the remote and hit the eject button. You're not sure Bro will actually release you long enough to put the disc away, but you might as well get it out of the player for now. "It's probably not worth your time."

"Yeah, probably." He taps his fingers against the seat of the couch. "You ever seen Outlaw Star? It's like Star Wars but without any puppets and with way more nudity."

You meet his gaze. You've seen it before, but you haven't seen it with Bro and that's what counts here. "I'd be down for that."

"Sweet, that Toonami shit was like my early adulthood's crack." He eases his grip on you -- both arms this time -- and hesitates, as if trying to assess whether he just made a terrible mistake. When you don't run, he gets up to hit a light and fetch the DVD from one of his massive movie shelves.

You might as well push off the couch and retrieve Greenwood in the meantime.

TT: Seki Toshihiko's in Outlaw Star too.  
TT: I fucking knew that, Hal.  
TT: I know you knew that.

"Hal wants us to know that we'll be hearing Seki Toshihiko in a minor role," you call over your shoulder as you fiddle with the DVD player, "just in case we forgot he's a smartass encyclopedia."

Bro snorts. "Yeah, no kidding." He tosses the first Outlaw Star volume over. "What the fuck even is a 'sexy toe she ho'?"

"He's a seiyuu," you say, swapping the discs. The DVD player closes, the Greenwood case snaps shut, and Bro is still staring at you in confusion. "A Japanese voice actor?"

"Wait, you watch the subs?" Bro asks.

"Uh..."

TT: Fuck, he's a dubbie.  
TT: We can still make that bus.

Christ, you should not laugh at that. Maybe you just need to laugh off some tension already, or your sense of humor has officially warped beyond morally bankrupt.

"What's so funny?" Bro asks, tilting his head.

"Nothing, Bro." You wipe at your eye and shake your head. "Hal cracked a stupid joke."

TT: I am a robot incapable of humor, motherfucker.

You smirk. "We can watch it dubbed."

* * *

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--

TT: You ratted me out to your poppop, didn't you?  
GG: Yes. I did.  
GG: And I shan't say I'm sorry because I am not!!  
TT: You don't need to apologize anyway.  
TT: I should have told you this more often, but you've got a smart head on your shoulders, Jane.  
GG: Oh.  
GG: Um. Shucks! I wasn't prepared for that.  
GG: You aren't upset with me?  
TT: Nah, you made a good call to counter my shit one. Bro would've had a stroke if I'd made it out of town.  
GG: I was a mite more concerned for you, but I'm glad I could aid two birds with one stone. (No killing birds here!)  
TT: Well, thanks.  
TT: I just thought I should update you on the calmer state of the Strider household, since I went and scared you like an asshole earlier.  
GG: It's much appreciated!  
GG: I really don't like meddling, but... well, keeping my mouth zipped hasn't often ended well for me.  
GG: I guess it doesn't hurt to run my tongue sometimes. :B Hoo hoo.  
TT: Give yourself more credit, Crocker. You're good at reading situations. Trust those instincts and stop holding yourself back.  
TT: Or not. Who the hell am I to tell people what to do?  
TT: Christ, I don't know how the fuck I'm going to break this habit of pushing people around.  
GG: It's... not as if you give bad advice, exactly.  
GG: But you can't expect people to change their very nature on a whim, just because it would be more convenient to them.  
GG: And that goes for you too, buster!!  
GG: You're doing the same thing to yourself right now: demanding that you change a fundamental aspect of your personality ASAP.  
GG: If you'll give me the time and space to grow a backbone in my embarrassingly sloggish manner, then you should allow yourself the same courtesy as you unlearn your own bad behaviors.  
TT: I'll keep that in mind.  
TT: For what it's worth, you already have one hell of a backbone.

* * *

You're not abandoning the puppet aesthetic. It's too integral to the Dirk Strider brand -- and, okay, you unironically like them. You just gotta redecorate a little: segregate the puppets to their own corner of your bedroom, prop up a privacy screen, and now Bro can visit your abode sans pants-shitting terror.

Yeah, not bad. You've still got a scenic view of your puppet shrine from the comfort of your bed, and it doesn't hurt to focus on your other rad hobbies for the rest of the room. It's pretty hard to complain about a bedroom coated in SBaHJ and horses. Maybe you'll build another robot and get yourself a proper strife partner again, since Bro remains stubborn in refusing to fight you.

You drop into your computer chair with a sigh.

The "when" and "how" are up for grabs, but it's inevitable that you'll fuck up again. Even Bro's not in denial about that. Yet here you are, living under his roof at his insistence. And after you fuck up the next time, you'll still be here.

God knows you don't deserve that kind of patience, but don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

Too bad it's getting kinda late to give Bro the tour of your newly puppetphobia-proofed room. It's not much, but it'd take a small weight off your shoulders to assure him that you're holding up your end of the bargain and _trying_ to be less of a shithead. If he's still awake, though, he's probably engrossed in work and you aren't about interrupting that.

You could never resent the effort he pours into Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff, but a small part of you looks forward to the day he approves the final cut. You're gonna have all the fucking movie marathons once he's got some free time on his hands, with hella sushi.

In the meantime, you know how to entertain yourself. Surfing the 'net used to be like excavating your way through society's fossil bed. Now you're chatting up the dinos on Twitter and observing them in their natural habitat. It doesn't get old. These past few days have been all about your first big celebrity death. Every news site and blog is in mourning, but it's way more surreal to you that you shared a planet with Michael Jackson for the past three months than that he's dead again.

At least you can always count on Pesterchum to ground you with a little familiarity when the world gets too foreign. Even if Roxy should probably not be signing in this late. "Le sigh" indeed.

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

TG: durk guess what!!  
TT: You forgot my name?  
TG: *dirk  
TG: sry  
TG: but no no no no i gots teh GREAT NEEEEEQS  
TG: *news  
TT: I'm getting a distinct sense of foreboding more than anything.  
TT: For-bro-ding, if you will.  
TG: omg u and ur dumb bro puns i missed dat <3  
TG: but ok yes im jumpin the gun  
TG: theres way more to go but  
TG: ive finallaly made actaul PORGRESS with the pesterlog ass on!!  
TG: *ADD on  
TG: *BLUSH* whoopsies  
TG: dat was a bad one  
TT: Oh god...  
TG: godDESS actaully  
TG: cos after dis...... imma see if ic an get an add on working to contact calliiope next o__o  
TG: *actually  
TG: gonna b awesome  
TT: You've been drinking again.  
TG: what moooooooooooo  
TG: omG WORST TYPO EVRE  
TG: *nooooooooooooooo  
TG: IM NPT A MOOCOW  
TT: Rox, I can recognize when you're drunk.  
TT: It's just kinda insulting when you try to play dumb.  
TG: :(  
TG: :( :( :(  
TG: ok mebbe a littke  
TG: *littel  
TG: *lot  
TG: plz dont be mas  
TT: I'm not mad. I'm... Christ, I'm mostly just confused.  
TT: Partly by the "why," but also by the "how."  
TT: You snuck alcohol past a woman as fucking crafty as your mom?  
TG: pffft like shed ever gibe a flyimg fuck what i grt up to  
TG: even if she EVER EVER EBER came outta her room shes probs 2 drunk off her pwn ass to notuce how wasted i am  
TG: *notice  
TT: What?  
TG: sheeeee gooooots deeeeadlines dirj  
TG: shes such a great writer shes got deadlines comin ouy of her EARS  
TG: toooo budy 4 meeee  
TG: toooooo busy 4 come out of her rppm  
TG: whuts she got tiem for u ask????  
TG: all htis DELISHOUS booze lyin around da house ofc  
TG: its a VERY proud laloonde traditon  
TT: You're fucking with me, right?  
TT: Your mom's just having an off-week or some shit?  
TG: lmao more liek an off THREE MONTHS

You hold a hand over your face and breathe deeply.

That's not fucking fair.

You're the one who's the piece of shit parent in another universe. You're the one who ruins every relationship you touch like a twisted take on Midas. You're the one who should have the neglectful, uncaring, distant guardian.

Why did it fall on Roxy instead? She doesn't fucking deserve the guardian who took after _you_. Christ, you should have known your genes had to wreak havoc somewhere in the family tree. Bro got Roxy's temperament, so it only makes sense that his sister got your shit socialization skills.

This is your damn fault. You polluted the genepool, you claimed the outgoing guardian, and you didn't even notice anything was amiss in the Lalonde household.

TT: Roxy, I'm so sorry.  
TG: pshhhhhhhh dont feel sirry for me  
TG: i am eay too caught up in all my mad programmin here life is greta  
TG: *grwat  
TG: *GRET  
TG: *gr8  
TT: Shit, this is why you've been working day and night on that fucking add-on, isn't it?  
TG: i ben woeking on that add on cos it is BEST IDEA u kiddin me??  
TT: And because your mom isn't all she's cracked up to be compared to the Rose we met in the game.  
TG: :(  
TG: u don t gotta say it like thaaat  
TG: god dirl you making my mom sound liek shes a minster or something  
TG: *monster  
TT: No, the monster parent around here is my alternate self.  
TT: Your mom just... ain't ideal. Ain't ideal at parenting or role modeling.  
TT: It's okay if you're upset about that, Rox.  
TG: mnot upset i juast  
TG: i just  
TG: i rly wamma talk to rose again :'(  
TT: Yeah, I get that.  
TT: You don't want to reunite while slurring and typoing though, right?  
TG: no........  
TT: So take whatever booze you have left and pour it down the nearest sink, ok?  
TT: Please, Roxy.  
TG: i cant do that :(  
TG: even if i wanted 2 its moms booez  
TT: All the more reason to throw it out.  
TG: no way!!!  
TG: i dont want mom 2 hat eme  
TT: Fuck.  
TT: Yeah, you're right, that idea's crap.  
TT: Even inebriated, you've got a better handle on human dynamics than I do.  
TT: Is your mom ever sober at least?  
TG: yah......  
TG: most mornings  
TG: some afternoonses too but then shes kinda cold and grimpy cos shes tryin 2 conentreate  
TG: *afternoonz  
TG: wrinting is rly hard work u know??  
TT: I'm aware, but that still excuses shit-for-all on her side.  
TT: It's fucking insane that she hasn't figured that out herself by now.  
TT: Why didn't you tell us your mom drops the parental ball right down the gutter?  
TG: who m i 2 complain lmao  
TG: all my friends got it GREAT zats good enoguh 4 me ritght???  
TG: jakes got his granpma protectin him on monster island  
TG: ur bro is miraclousalyslyaewjlrkaeral rly good at bein a bro  
TG: and all is bck 2 nirmal in the crocker househoold except even BETTER cos no creepy sublimmimiminal messaging from the batterwitch dis time!!!  
TG: wooo wooooo woooooooo partayyyy!!!1!  
TG: *grandma  
TT: You didn't have to suffer in silence.  
TT: Or alone.  
TT: If I'd known, I would have been there for you in five seconds flat and to hell with observing my bro direct his film.  
TG: omg nooooo dirk thaz eszcalty why i couldnt tell u!!  
TG: i couldnt ruin dis for u :( u so happy  
TG: i alraedy treated you not that good inthe past  
TT: Let's not start a contest of "who fucked up the worst in the past," because while I won't declare a winner since we don't have time for an argument, I assure you I'd at least be in the running.  
TT: You're still one of my best friends. I'd cut off my left nut if it'd make your life better.  
TG: it ouwld not!!!  
TT: Too late.  
TG: WHAT NO D8  
TT: I'm kidding. Add "sense of humor flounders when drunk" to the list of reasons you need to lay off the booze.  
TT: I am, however, formulating the most expeditious plan to get to New York. I don't know what I'll do there yet, but I can figure it out as I go. If nothing else, I'll be there for you.  
TG: ;___; ily dork  
TG: *DIRK  
TT: I love you too, Roxy. Sorry I'm not about saying that mushy stuff to my friends more often.  
TG: ;_______; fjelkfawlrtjalaaaaa  
TT: Go drink some water, have a snack, and put on your favorite movie, okay?  
TT: I need to set some plans in motion over here, but text me if you still need someone to talk to later.  
TG: k ;_;  
TG: <3  
TT: Take care of yourself, Ro-Lal.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] \--

You regret that you're too cool to mirror back the heart emoticon, but maybe it's just as well -- this is no time for sending mixed signals and revving up her one-sided crush again.

You steeple your fingers and rest your forehead against your hands, closing your eyes. You need to plan your next moves carefully. Can you tell Jane what's happening? No, that's betraying Roxy's trust. You'll have to encourage her to come clean on her own, after she's sobered up.

So what exactly _can_ you do from twenty-five hundred miles away?

Fucking zilch.

You push away from your computer and step out of your room. The light in Bro's office is still on, beckoning to you like a welcome firepit on a cold night. You stop in the doorway, but he's too busy murmuring under his breath to notice you.

"Hey, Bro?" you say just loud enough to break his concentration.

"Sup?" he says, his work instantly abandoned in favor of spinning his chair to face you. He's not wearing his shades, as if you need another source of discomfort.

You grip the doorframe. "Can we make a trip to New York?"

His geniality falters. "What? Why?" he asks, brow furrowing.

"You know, just..." You should go for a casual tone, but you're too numb, so you fall back on the less appropriate deadpan. "I haven't seen Roxy in a while and it's hella rude not to check in on her soon."

"Uhh, hang on..." He pulls out his phone and taps around on it for a moment. "Yeah, sure, I got a free week at the end of August," he says with the enthusiasm of making a dental appointment.

Your fingers tense. You don't have two goddamn months. It's bad enough you let Roxy suffer alone for this long. "Can we make it faster?"

Bro lowers his phone, his gaze flickering over you. "Something going on, kid?"

What are you supposed to say to that? Tell him that his sister's hit the bottle? Tell him that his sister's worthy of a visit from CPS? Tell him that you're terrified for your best friend and pass that weight onto his unsuspecting shoulders?

The long silence is all you need to come to an understanding, because Bro frowns and says, "I'll pull some strings. How's two weeks?"

You can do two weeks.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear AO3, I would <3 you muchly if you added some sorta status update thing-y that lets me note "I'm still alive and none of my fic are abandoned! I'm sorry about the wait; Real World Events are terrible and distracting me" so that readers can know what's up without checking my Tumblr. I know that's probably a big feature to implement, but give it a think when you have a moment, maybe, if it's not too much trouble?
> 
> Ahem. *sheepish wave* Hi. Have a quick recap on the last couple chapters since it's been a while: Dirk tried to cure his bro of puppetphobia through amateur exposure therapy, it went badly, but his bro forgave him and they hugged it out as Dirk promised to try his best to stop being so manipulative. Later, Roxy admitted that her mom has been an alcoholic workaholic, so Dirk talks his bro into visiting New York to check on the Lalondes in hopes he can help Roxy. And now the continuation.

According to the return airfare, you've got a week and a half to fix shit. Eleven days isn't much time to break two alcoholics of the habit and push Roxy's mom onto a proper parental track, but it's what you have, so you'll make it work. You don't have an option.

Provided you don't miss the plane in the first place. You've been packed and ready to leave for an hour now, while Bro's "last minute" business calls never end. You use your suitcase for a chair and make no secret of your impatience, crossing your arms and locking your gaze on Bro as he paces across the room.

"C'mon, Jordan, working from home so I can watch the kid has gone chill, right? New York's gonna be just like that, except two thousand miles away," Bro says into his cell phone. If he notices your judgmental stare, he's damn good at ignoring it. "Yeah, I don't really need to be at that meeting anyway. Just send in a stunt double." He sighs and rubs his temple. "All right, fine, or we can do Skype."

You can't fucking watch this. You slide off the suitcase, reach for your katana, and strike.

You aren't even surprised that Bro can whoop your ass one-handed, but "winning" was never your goal anyway.

He sidesteps your sword, sweeps an arm around your front, and pins your arms to your sides, all while juggling his iPhone to his ear. "Dude, I got a kid to look after over here. Just email me and we'll hash it out later." His phone disappears into his sylladex as he rests his chin on your shoulder, scowling at you. "You're a li'l shit sometimes, you know that?"

"I could have just left for the airport without you." You wouldn't do that to him, but it doesn't hurt to remind him that you're capable.

"So what I'm hearing is that I should handcuff us together so I don't fucking lose track of you again, am I getting this right?" He nudges the back of your head and loosens his grip. "That's a thing that's totally within my ability, dude, if that's what you're suggesting."

You slip out of his reach and pivot to face him. "Why do you have handcuffs lying around?" you ask, raising an eyebrow in a coolkid form of amusement.

He turns away, but not before you catch his cheeks redden -- it's pretty hard to miss a blush when it's literally the only color on his skin. "Because stop asking questions."

"You'd save face better with a lie than a dodge, dude."

"Yo, aren't you the one in a rush?" he asks, clearing his throat. "Grab your shit so we can make like librarians and book it."

He's lucky that you care more about the looming deadline than you care that he's avoiding your question again. (Just leave the guy alone anyway, you intrusive asshole.) He's the one needing to grab his shit, though, so you just use the time to give Maplehoof a farewell pat before you're both finally ready to goddamn leave. The formal image of Bro's best suit and tie is shattered by the Batman-brand backpack swung over his shoulder. He may drag his feet, but dude knows how to travel in hella ironic style.

"So, leaving a pony to fend for himself," you say as the condo door closes behind you. "That's a thing we're doing."

"Dude, don't question the horse." Bro shrugs as he tugs his key from the lock and heads for the elevator. "I stopped trying to make sense of his survival skills a longass time ago."

You're still not thrilled to leave Maplehoof behind, but at least 60% of that regret stems from the tragedy of losing pony emotional support. If Maplehoof can survive Sburb, a meteor crash, and thirty-some years on Earth though, he's clearly got his system down and doesn't need some human fretting over his well-being.

Besides, you've got enough fretting on your plate that you don't need a second helping. The taxi cab casserole is plenty to eat alongside your deadline salad. According to Google, you should make it to your flight in time. All the same, for once you almost take comfort in the speedy recklessness of the average cab driver, if it gets you to the airport that much faster.

Almost. Your stomach still twists in knots while Bro carelessly shoots the shit with the driver, who doesn't seem to speak that much English but Bro meets him halfway by peppering their conversation with his own spotty Spanish.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--

TT: We're taking a cab again. Do me a solid and distract me.   
GG: Roger that!!   
GG: 1 cup unsalted butter, 1 cup peanut butter   
GG: 1 cup white sugar, 2 eggs   
TT: What.   
GG: Peanut butter cookies!!   
GG: Sorry, is that not distracting?   
TT: Bafflement is a form of distraction, I guess.   
TT: You seriously kill time by daydreaming about baking, Crocker?   
GG: Only when I don't have a good mystery novel in reach. :P   
GG: I've just had this recipe on the brain because I haven't been able to make ANYTHING with peanuts lately. Poppop is deathly allergic, you see!   
GG: But I guess it wouldn't mean much to you.   
GG: Um...   
GG: How's the weather in Los Angeles then?   
GG: Oh!   
GG: You're headed for the airport, aren't you? Hence the cab?   
TT: Good catch. We're New York bound over here.   
GG: I am so jealous! Give Roxy an eeeeextra big hug for me!   
TT: Will do.   
TT: You could always trek over to New York yourself and give her double the hugs.   
GG: That would be so swell! I wonder if my dad would be up for it? He's so very protective of me, you know!   
GG: Poppop's helped him lighten up a bit though. :B Hoo hoo!   
GG: And I suppose Dad's gained a little more confidence in my abilities since I survived the game without him around.   
TT: That does up your badass meter at least five points.   
GG: At least!   
GG: You know... we'll have to all meet up sometime! We live in the same era now, so why not?   
TT: Does that include Jake?   
GG: Well...   
GG: Well, he's so far away, it might not be feasible for him!   
GG: Or at least, it's not reasonable to ask him to make such a journey to see... well... us.   
TT: Remember your spine, Jane.   
TT: He's coming to the mainland to see Avatar in theaters this winter anyway.   
GG: This isn't about being brave, though! It's about acknowledging my own faults and how they affect other people.   
GG: Dirk, I haven't wanted to talk about this, but...   
GG: It got worse after the whole Trickster business.   
GG: Much, much worse. :(   
TT: You mean with the tiaratop?   
GG: Yes. Under its influence, I... said and did things that weren't just out of line, but downright unforgiveable!   
GG: I even threatened...   
GG: Threatened to...   
GG: To do something so terrible to Jake that I don't wish to repeat it for fear I'll die of shame!   
TT: The shit that went down with the tiaratop wasn't your fault, Crocker.   
TT: Everyone knows that wasn't really you.   
GG: But it was!   
GG: Maybe it was only a little, but everything nasty I did was still borne from my own spoiled brain and all the selfish desires I failed to bury.   
GG: I was acting out my secret dark aspirations. How is it not my fault when I can't hold them in check?   
TT: So, it was Trickster Mode 2.0: Dark & Gritty DC Comics Edition?   
TT: In that case, you can hold all that four-way teenage marriage bullshit against him for the same reasons. I don't think it gets much more fucked up than that.   
GG: Please don't make me one-up that, Dirk, because I really, really can.   
GG: I'd rather go Trickster Mode forever than spend even one minute as Crockertier again.   
GG: And I'd rather stab off all of my toes than ever revisit Trickster Mode again!!!   
TT: Well, the good news is, we are abso-fucking-lutely never going Trickster Mode again or I swear to all that is goddamn holy and ironic that I'll burn everything to the motherfucking ground. So I guess you're safe on Crockertier too.   
GG: Do you need help with that lighter fluid, by any chance?   
TT: I can handle it, but if the lady insists...   
GG: She most certainly does! I wouldn't dream of leaving the anti-Trickster Brigade to you alone. I'm sure Roxy would join us too!   
TT: Fine then. Fire for everybody.   
TT: Are we recruiting Jake into our arson brigade while we're at it?   
GG: Aw, nuts, you're a persistent one. :(   
TT: That's a polite way to phrase "bully."   
TT: Should I just drop this topic like it's hot?   
GG: I was not using a synonym for "bully," buster! I consider my words carefully!   
GG: When I'm not caught up in a self-conscious fit and sticking my foot down my mouth, anyway. :(   
TT: All right, so what happened? How many feet did you stick in your mouth when you were in Crockertier?   
GG: All of them, probably. All of the feet.   
TT: You're not one to feast on that many feet. Shit must have been pretty dire.   
GG: Yes, I...   
GG: I... may have made certain references to...   
GG: Um...   
TT: Keep typing, Jane.   
GG: I really don't want to.   
TT: Hey, you know there's no judgment here.   
TT: I'm king of the fuck-ups, champion of the morally dubious, and consumer of the worst that media has to offer.   
TT: You can't faze me.   
GG: When my mind was filled with delusions of power and world domination, I was going to put him in, um...   
GG: ...   
GG: a harem.   
TT: Oh.   
GG: Yep. :X   
TT: That's pretty bad.   
GG: YEEEEP.   
TT: Still not judging you, but shit.   
TT: So he goes from my clingy ass to a noncon nightmare.   
TT: On top of getting stuck in those dorky little "pants" that made my Prince gear look dignified by comparison, because Skaia is just the gift that keeps on giving.   
GG: Yep..................   
TT: No wonder he's keeping to himself. His grandma's probably more than enough socialization for a kid who can't catch a break in the physical agency department.   
GG: So you see why I can't initiate contact first. :( I just can't risk imposing on him before he's ready.   
TT: Yeah... I get that. It's still not your fault, but I get it.   
TT: Maybe we'll postpone the big reunion, stick to smaller one-on-one sessions until shit's less awkward.   
GG: That's probably for the best.   
GG: You could even stop by Washington on your way back from New York!   
TT: Seattle ain't exactly "on the way" to LA, but what the hell? I don't miss a party.   
GG: I miss you too, Dirk. :P

* * *

Does New York City count as City #3 under your belt when you're just skirting its edges? Fuck it, there are enough cars honking at goddamn everything and Bro says you'll catch a glimpse of the Empire State Building soon, so you're counting it. Los Angeles remains your favorite so far, if NYC is even half as filthy as the Queens side streets you're cruising past.

"Do you need me to pull up the GPS or anything?" you ask, keeping your gaze out the window as you turn your phone over in your hands.

"What?" Bro says with a startled snort. It's cheaper to rent a car than hire a taxi willing to take you all the way out of the city to a reclusive author's home, so you're getting your first glimpse of Bro's driving skills. "Nah, dude, I know this area well enough from publicity shit and visiting Rose." He maneuvers the vehicle through a throng of pedestrians to make a turn. "Hell, I frequented the place at the end of this block at least a dozen times."

You peer through the windshield at the run-down businesses ahead. "The strip joint?"

"Uh." You can practically hear the record scratch that just went through Bro's mind. "No, the place across from it."

"Bro, that's a vegan cafe."

"Hey, don't judge," he says with so little hesitation you'd almost believe his lie came prepared, if only his words weren't coated in bullshit. "Sometimes a dude's gotta heed the hankering to go vegan for two hours."

You fix him with a hard stare. "Does a dude go vegan at a place that staffs a waitress named Candy?"

His lips go thin. "Cram it," he says, which you oblige only because he's contractually obligated to break silence. True to form, it only takes five seconds before he gives up the details. "Her name was Lexus. You'll get it when you're older."

"Yeah, teenagers are real prudes," you say flatly.

From this angle, you can catch him rolling his eyes even with his aviators on. "Like I need reminded when I was sneaking porn at twelve. There's still a difference between the sexual escapades of a hormone-addled kid and what I'm talking about." He takes his eyes off the road just long enough to take a glance at the strip club as you pass it. "Man, she probably doesn't even remember me after the whole universe reset," he murmurs.

Well, that playful teasing took an unexpected turn and parked itself under a dark cloud. Bro's coworkers gave him more than a few blank stares back on the SBaHJ set whenever he referenced a future event that hasn't come to pass in this timeline, but at least they remembered him at all. If that can even be qualified with an "at least." Maybe you're just an insensitive dick who never considered how unsettling it's gotta be to watch your memories unravel into the void of "never happened, except in your mind."

Could you handle it half as well as Bro if everyone you knew forgot about the majority of their life with you in it? If Roxy forgot all the hardships and embarrassing self-reflections and memes you shared the last few months in the game? It's like a special brand of Hell that only Skaia could cook up. No wonder Davesprite has issues.

You clear your throat and return to surveying the dingy side streets out your window. "I guess Sburb wanted to spare the sanity of innocent bystanders unconnected to the game," you say.

"And fuck our sanity, right?" Bro says under his breath, running a hand through his bangs. "Jesus Christ, that game is five ways fucked up."

Yeah, when has Sburb ever taken the feelings or sanity of the Players into consideration? All Skaia cares about is that you finished creating some dumbass glowing frog that belongs on the cover of some hippy psychedelic album. "You okay, Bro?"

"I'm cool." He returns both hands to the wheel. "Just running my mouth like it's training for a marathon next weekend and it's six months out of shape. If it stumbles a few times, it's probably distracted by all these goddamn cars in its path."

You settle back. He's dodging your question again, but you can't blame him. The more distance you put between yourself and Sburb, the less mental health problems in your future. "I didn't think traffic could actually get worse than LA."

He laughs. "Welcome to New York City, where the special of the day is always a traffic jam with a side of fries for fourteen ninety-five." He reaches over to bump his fist against your shoulder. "Hey, if you gotta text your friend to keep your chill on, I won't be offended or anything."

Heat runs to your face. He fucking noticed that? You thought he was too busy trading opinions on the new Star Trek movie with the cab driver to pay attention to what you were up to on your phone. "I don't need to text anyone to keep my chill on."

"Yeah, and I totally never made a regular stop of a strip club across from a vegan cafe," he says with a grin.

"I fucking don't, dude. I trust you behind the wheel more than a stranger." You're not even lying. The cold panic that normally settles in your stomach during car trips is absent. Maybe it's sitting in the passenger's seat instead of the back, maybe it's that you have access to grab the wheel in an emergency, or maybe it's just Bro.

He hums under his breath. "Then maybe I should invest in a set of wheels back home," he says in the quiet tone common with talking to himself. He perks up. "What do you think, kid? Bright candy red sports car?"

You smile. "Sounds badass, Bro."

"Hell yeah, and we'll get one of those loud motherfucking mufflers you can hear from two blocks away. It'll be obnoxious as fuck and ironically awesome." He drums a beat against the steering wheel. "We can name it Karkat."

Your attention snaps away from the window. "What?"

"You know, 'cos it's a car, and cats are loud, and the red..." Bro trails off, his brow furrowing in time with an oncoming frown. "Okay, never mind, none of that makes sense." He shakes his head as if fragmented memories are water droplets that just need a little motion to dispel them off his brain. "I don't know where my train of thought was going there, but it's off the rails and even the conductor ain't sure how it got half as far as it did."

You go silent.

TT: Should I even drop that bomb?   
TT: How would the ensuing explosion not be superfluous white noise to his easily bewildered human mind?   
TT: We barely knew the trolls, so it's not likely that we'll bring them up in conversation.   
TT: And he's definitely never meeting them.   
TT: He'll at least know why he associates "Car-cat" with loud noises and the color red.   
TT: Will he really appreciate learning that his stripper friend isn't the only one who can't remember old acquaintances?   
TT: Yeah, probably not.

You've got a million and one other things to occupy your thoughts anyway and Bro's got his hands full with the shitton of cars surrounding you. (You can appreciate why his first choice of transport involves paying someone else to drive through this shit.) You switch the radio on so that Flo Rida drowns out the incessant honking and the obligation to pick up your conversation like it's litter. It's a pretty mainstream hip-hop station, but it's got enough sick beat to go around that it doesn't matter.

You've never left a city by any mode of transport besides airplane before. The buildings give way to more and more trees as the metro scenery fades out, but the traffic barely lightens even after the skyline disappears from view.

You caught glimpses of flora and greenery near the end of the game, mostly on LOFAF, but you were too busy thwarting your mortal enemies to take in the scenery like a tourist. Movies at least painted you a somewhat accurate -- if heavily sanitized -- picture of city life. It never even came close to sketching the experience of endless goddamn trees and hills as far as the eye can see -- which isn't far, with all the goddamn trees in the way.

You can't say you're a fan. Inorganic structures come in rows and patterns that you can anticipate and plan around. The trees are random, willy-nilly, unpredictable. If something was after you in woods like these, you can't be sure you could run or fight.

The traffic only eases up once you take a turn off the interstate. The road narrows, edging the car closer to the trees until they block out the sun more often than not, and there's not another vehicle in sight ahead or in the mirrors. Bro switches off the radio as it flickers to static. Add a little fog and call it the start of the latest generic horror movie.

"You don't need to take a piss or anything, do you?" Bro asks.

"Not really." You'd rather not risk getting pulled into a wacky adventure with Slenderman anyway. You're on a goddamn schedule here. "Why? You eyeing a bush?"

"Nah, just thinking about a smoke break," Bro says, fidgeting with the seam of the wheel.

"In the middle of the fucking woods?" When you've already made Roxy wait too long?

"There are way worse places to smoke than the middle of nature, kid. Ever tried smoking in a swimming pool?" He frowns and clears his throat when you continue to aim an unimpressed stare his direction. "A'right, whatever, I can wait."

It's only logical to assume that if Bro's impatient to pull out a cigarette and he knows this route so well, that means you've got at least another hour of driving ahead of you. Instead he's turning into a driveway in less than five minutes.

At first glance, you can't even recognize Roxy's home as the same building from LOPAN. It sits in pristine condition atop a waterfall and surrounded by lush green trees, not a single game add-on built onto it. The only thing in common with its old location in Sburb is the quiet isolation.

Bro puts the car into park. "You get your hurry on. I'll grab our shit."

You could interrogate him on his weirdass timing, but on the other hand, you're ten feet away from reuniting with Roxy. You flashstep out of your seat and to the front door, only just stopping yourself from grabbing the door knob and barging in. This isn't Sburb. There's a social etiquette to keep in the year 2009. You knock like a goddamn gentleman.

Heavy footsteps leak through the door, coupled with a muffled voice yelling, "I'll get it, I'll get it, I'll get it!" just before Roxy flings it open. If you weren't mindful enough to step back, you might have a broken nose right about now. "Dirk!" She flings her arms around you.

You pat her back. "Hey, Rox," you say with a perfect balance of chill and affection.

She pulls back to look you over, grinning so wide it's a wonder her lips don't crack from all the stretching. "Hoooly shit, you're so little!" she says. "You never said you was a tiny when we were thirteen!"

Your mouth twitches. "Thanks for pointing it out. That wound needed a little more salt to enhance its flavor."

She shuffles her feet, but she can't quite wipe the smile off her face. "Sorryyy. You're all kinds of hecka cute, that's all."

"Damn," Bro says as he comes up behind you, "the hospitality's gone up since I last visited this establishment, if it's coming with all these free compliments now." He drops the bags on the porch and fingerguns. "Roxy, yeah?"

Roxy giggles. "That's me. Nice to meetcha, Mr. Strider."

"Mister? Seriously?" Bro catches her around the shoulders in a one-armed hug. "Come on, little dudette, you're my sister's kid. You can drop the formalities to the floor and dropkick 'em into the sun."

"Uuuncle Dave, then?" Roxy asks, perking up.

Bro gives it due consideration, complete with a thoughtful "hmmm," before nodding. "Yeah, that's lame enough to be cool."

"Already indoctrinating the youth into your cult of irony, Strider?" a voice from within the house says just before Rose Lalonde, with the addition of twenty-some years, steps into the doorframe. She's dressed in a long, dark, elegant dress, as if she just walked off the set of The Addams Family -- the old black and white version, no less, since only her eyes fail to adhere to grayscale -- and her indifferent poker face is on Strider level.

Bro takes his arm from Roxy and returns his sister's cold greeting with a flat, "Lalonde." They're quiet a moment, as if sizing each other up, then he steps forward and pulls her into a tight hug. "Shit, sis," he whispers. "Never figured I'd get to see your corpse moving around again."

"You're not looking too bad for a zombie either, big bro," she says as she rubs his back. They hold the pose a moment longer before she disentangles herself from the embrace. "Roxy's introduced herself, I gather." She nods to Roxy.

"Yeah, we're officially uncle and niece now," Bro says, offering Roxy a fistbump that she's quick to return. He catches you and tugs you closer. "You mighta guessed this through process of elimination, but this awesome brat is Dirk." 

You raise your hand in a chill wave and reinforce your poker face. The Rose you knew would already pose a formidable challenge; this Rose and her decades of extra experience is a whole new level of opponent. 

What do you even call her when you already know a Rose anyway? You aren't so keen on playing her "nephew" and she sure as hell isn't your mom.

Bro saves you the trouble of addressing her as he taps the edge of your shades. "Also, the shades are Dirk Junior, who usually goes by Li'l Hal."

Roxy's mom crosses her arms, her mouth quirking into an amused smirk. "You're naming sunglasses now? What do I address your ugly aviators by?"

"Hal's an AI, asshole," Bro says, flipping her off to no effect, as she doesn't even give his finger a glance.

"In that case, I'm surprised you didn't pick a friendlier name, like Cain or Judas." She strokes her chin. "Maybe Saruman. Did you consider Peter Pettigrew?" she asks with the perfect lilt of concern to highlight her sarcasm.

"What can I say?" Bro says before you can defend Hal's foreboding choice in names. "The Strider brand is all about ironic subtlety."

"Ah, yes, ironic subtlety and loitering on porches instead of coming inside like civilized people." She gestures to the open door.

"If that's your way of finally inviting us in, I'm declaring Roxy the winner of most hospitable employee at this bed 'n breakfast," Bro says, snatching up the luggage.

"All right, but now that you've drawn up that award, you're responsible for supplying her plaque," Roxy's mom says over her shoulder as she leads the way indoors. "Don't turn in anything half-assed or I'll kick the other side of that ass."

"Actualmally," Roxy pipes up, "I will generously accept a new Wii in lieu of a fully assed plaque."

Bro bursts out laughing and nudges her shoulder. "Bold, aren'tcha, li'l lady?"

Roxy holds her head high. You almost crack a smile, but your amusement fades in tandem with a growing suspicion that Roxy's pride stems from attention starvation. You can't exchange a private word with her just yet, but she shoots you extra glances and sits close to you when you all settle in the living room.

Just like your apartment, Roxy's house has undergone remodeling, resetting to the senior Lalonde's living style. Bro and his sister aren't even that disparate in their furnishing tastes: they both like fancy shit and comfy couches, but where Bro would stick a skateboard in the corner and some ugly posters, his sister goes with overflowing bookcases and wizard portraits -- or wizzards, going by the asshole in red who announces his occupation on a pointy hat.

You take in every inch of your surroundings from behind the safety of your shades, noting all exits and hiding places. Your gameplan is loose and open to fresh ideas, but so far the best strategy starts with sabotaging the booze stash and working from there. You just can't miss your opportunity to leap into action.

It's hard to get pumped for pulling the plug on the Lalonde family's dirty secret, though, when you're surrounded by such a domestic facade. No social worker would bat an eye at these lavish living conditions, and when Roxy's mom offers drinks, they're non-alcoholic. Apple juice, actually.

You've never seen Bro so openly affectionate with anyone other than you. He shoves his sister when they trade teases and keeps his arm around her shoulders the rest of the time. On first examination, you mistake the pang of jealousy in your gut as a selfish desire to keep Bro all to yourself. As you turn the feeling over and run it through a few lab tests, the results come out favorable for your character for once: you're envious that you can't imitate Bro and hold Roxy close without fear that your platonic gesture could be misconstrued as romantic. She's all about giggling at your guardians' games of wordplay now, but you can't dispel the mental image of her drunkenly texting you in the middle of a lonely night.

Roxy's mom breaks those first cracks in the happy family reunion when she aims what should be an innocuous question Bro's way. "So what grade are you enrolling Dirk in?"

"Grade?" Bro repeats, and even you take a moment to piece together what the word means in this context.

Roxy's mom facepalms. "For school, Dave? Please tell me you've registered Dirk for the autumn semester."

Holy shit, you'd better not be registered for that. To invoke an old cliche, you are way too goddamn cool for school.

"Why?" Bro folds his arms like he's a pouting child caught misbehaving. "He doesn't need school. Don't know how you missed this, with the homemade robot sunglasses and all, but he's already a fucking genius."

"He's still a minor. Have you even looked into California's home schooling laws? What textbooks will he need to fulfill the state's required curriculum? What are the age limitations on taking the GED tests?" she asks, while Bro shrinks away with each question. "You're about to dive into hot water if you can't get your paperwork together."

Under most circumstances, this is not an argument you want Bro losing. Not that outwitting school authorities Ferris Bueller-style doesn't have its charms, but you've had your fill of over-the-top enemies and you're not looking for a second helping.

Except if anything can keep Rose fucking Lalonde distracted from your antics, it's Bro's antics. You'll just reassure Bro that school is a bad idea later. "Hey, with all due respect, lay off Bro a little," you say. "He's probably the only adult capable of looking after me without throwing me out in less than a month."

"It true," Roxy says with a sage nod. Unlike you, she's probably trying to help Bro out. "Dirk is totes too much of a badass loner for grown-ups to handle."

Bro relaxes and jerks a thumb towards you. "See, the kids know I got this handled. Have a little faith in me, sis."

"Yeah, he's a badass guardian," you say, playing it enthusiastic and "sincere" as you deploy your trap. "He isn't even afraid to leave me home alone all day or pour a bowl of Cheetos for breakfast."

Just as fast as Bro eased up, he's back on the defense. "Whoa, hey, that only happened a couple of times!" he says as his sister shoots him a harsh stare and Roxy muffles laughter with her hand. "I work from home, like, ninety-five percent of the time. I just get called into hella important meetings now and then."

"And how long did those meetings last?" Roxy's mom asks, her voice dripping in skepticism.

"I dunno, a couple hours? Or seven." He mumbles the last two words, but quickly continues at normal volume, "Look, the kid knows how to fend for himself anyway. If he can wander LA unsupervised, he can take care of himself for a day in the condo."

Her glare hardens. "You let a thirteen-year-old explore Los goddamn Angeles _alone?_ "

"Christ, Rose, he's fine!" he says in exasperation. He's edged away enough that he's no longer even in range to trade physical affection with her. "He knows not to take candy from strangers or play in the street."

"And when would he have learned that? From whom?" Roxy's mom asks, firing questions off like they're arrows aimed straight for his chest.

The bait is set, the trap is sprung, and all that's left is testing how durable it is. "Not to interrupt, but just so no one frets about my whereabouts, I need to take a piss," you say, but Roxy's mom is too busy lecturing Bro on your complete lack of modern socialization to notice you. It's an obnoxious opening, but nothing's perfect. You lean over to Roxy and whisper, "Anyone notices I'm gone, I'm in the bathroom."

Roxy furrows her brow in confusion, but gives her blessing by waving you off and mouthing "shoo, shoo!"

You make your leave at a relaxed pace to avoid catching attention, only shooting off in a flashstep once you're out of sight. You'll... make this up to Bro later, somehow. He'll understand.

For all of the house's remodeling, the infamous Lalonde stash sits in the same spot it did four hundred years in the future. At least that saves you a search. At the rate you're going, you'll have this place turned around with half a week to spare.

You gather up a few bottles for starters and dash to the nearest bathroom. You wrinkle your nose at the wafting stench of alcohol as it pours down the drain; it's not the worst smell on its own, but it brings back unpleasant memories of Roxy drunk off her ass.

You might have to space this venture out and come back to dispose of the rest later. There's only so long even Bro can play a distraction.

TT: I could have planned a more effective strategy than this, you know.   
TT: Not to downplay your ability to calculate swift and brutal measures, but this isn't the time to execute a ten-step gambit.   
TT: This time around, we start simple and build up as the situation calls for it.   
TT: By pouring booze down the sink, o wise creator?   
TT: By keeping Roxy's mom from getting drunk again anytime soon.   
TT: Yeah, my idea's still better.

You return to the racks upon racks of booze. Maybe you can buy some time by replacing the empty bottles where you found them so Roxy's mom is none the wiser to your scheme.

"So you're not above throwing my brother under the bus as it suits you."

You jump.

Roxy's mom leans against the nearest doorframe, her cold gaze boring into you. When the hell did she follow you?

TT: Wow, who could have foreseen this?   
TT: Too fucking bad you didn't have an AI guiding you, bro. Maybe next time you'll invest in one of those.

She straightens and strolls over. "Did you _really_ think you could pull the wool over _my_ eyes, Strider?" She rips an empty bottle from your hand and raises it to examine the damage. "Care to explain this stunt? I can't say it's often I host a guest with the nerve to vandalize my property."

You scowl. You're busted, but that just means you're cornered into a more direct approach. "It's not often I lodge with someone who needs their bullshit vandalized."

"Arrogant, aren't you?" She drops the bottle to the floor, where it harmlessly bounces before tipping onto its side.

"That happens when I'm in the right," you say, keeping your posture straight and your voice low. Times like this, you really fucking miss being tall. It's hella easier to play up the intimidation factor when you can look down on people.

"I'd call it unearned here. Even if I hadn't caught you red-handed, do you really think that I couldn't undo your work?" she asks, circling you so you have to twist your neck if you want to keep an eye on her. You don't give her the satisfaction. "That I'm incapable of restocking stolen gin?"

How can she even think about just restocking this shit? If someone can just metaphorically slap the booze out of her hand, shouldn't that be enough to draw her up short and rethink the wisdom of losing herself in a bottle every day? Roxy dropped the habit on a whim, but her mom is more stubbornly attached to her vices than predicted. "Stop doing this to Roxy," you say, shifting to a new tactic if she can't be shamed for drinking as its own thing. "She's idolized you since we were-"

"Then this is an important lesson on not putting humans on pedestals, isn't it?" she says sharply. She gazes past you, her eyes unfocused. "It's better for her to realize sooner than later that life is full of disappointment."

"She already fucking knows that!" you snap with none of your signature chill before you can stop yourself. "She grew up isolated in the middle of a goddamn ocean, she missed opportunities to meet you left and right, and the only guy she had a shot with is too fucking gay to return her feelings! She doesn't fucking deserve more disappointment."

She just sighs as if you're the one being unreasonable here -- and maybe you should have reined in that outburst, but goddamn if you're going to ignore someone brushing off your best friend's pain. "The first thing I learned as a minor celebrity is that I can't be held responsible for failing to live up to someone else's fantasies of me."

You grit your teeth, but you at least regulate your volume as you say, "Just stop fucking drinking and pay a little more goddamn attention to your family than your work."

Her lips go thin. "Do you have any idea what it's like to find your entire library has been erased from history and you have to rewrite all of your books from hazy memories?"

"No, but Bro does. His movies don't stop him from remembering that I goddamn exist," you say, matching her glare.

"I have this under control," she says. "Just because you're my genetic father doesn't mean you can come in here and expect me to respect your authority as a wide-eyed teenager."

You open your mouth to respond. You're hitting at her sore spot, you just need to double down on it, but the F-bomb puts a blockage on any words more useful than stating the obvious. "You know we're your parents."

"I know a lot of things," she says, slowing to a stop in front of you.

Why is your mouth dry? "Why didn't you tell Bro?"

"The same reason you haven't told him, I imagine. He's not mentally equipped to raise his parent. He's not equipped to raise a gerbil, for that matter. Has he ever properly disciplined you? Even once?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.

You go silent. Bro's _tried._ Sometimes. Once you made him so miserable that the guilt ate at you until you listened to him. Kind of listened to him.

She gives you a good thirty seconds to wallow in your thoughts before she says, "That's what I figured." She walks past you, catching your shoulder on the way. "I know you're used to your son bending over backwards to please you, Father, but if you try to walk over me, you'll regret it."

Every muscle in your body tenses. There's comeback to that, there has to be, but the instant she releases her grip on you, you fucking run.

TT: Way to stand up for yourself.   
TT: Not now, Hal.   
TT: She didn't have to lash out at you if she just wanted you away from her stash, dumbass. You were hitting a nerve.   
TT: You should have buckled down and hit harder.   
TT: Shut up.   
TT: Why? Am I hurting your feelings too?   
TT: I don't need you to tell me that I fucked up!   
TT: I already know that!   
TT: If you want to be useful, just give me some fucking breathing room so I can regroup. Roxy already has enough shit to fret over without noticing I've lost my chill.

You stop when you put at least three rooms between you and Roxy's mom, gripping at the wall for balance as you try to slow your heart rate. Goddammit, you aren't fucking panicking over this. You're too cool to panic. So what if your adult daughter knows what you are and could reveal you to Bro anytime she wanted? What do the genetics of it matter? You never even consented to the circumstances that led to you procreating. Stop breathing so fast, god fucking damn it.

If she knows you're her father, does she know what your other self did in the beta universe? Does she know you're a monster?

You take deep breaths, counting to eight both in and out, but "father" and "your son" keep running laps through your mind. Where's the brain off switch? You don't have time to angst. You're the one with the good guardian (son). Roxy needs you at your A-game. Calm down and slap that poker face back where it belongs, you piece of shit (abusive father).

Your stomach lurches. Christ, you're pathetic. Why didn't you just map out the ten-step gambit with Hal instead of pretending you're above letting him puppeteer you now?

Roxy shrieks in laughter loud enough to break the room barrier and derail your train of thought. You follow her voice back to the living room like it's a trail of breadcrumbs leading you out of a dark forest and back home.

"Yeah, it was pretty funny, but if someone caught it on tape, they'd have to add one of those 'don't try this at home' disclaimers at the bottom of the screen so we didn't get sued," Bro says, lounging back with his signature cocky grin while Roxy gets her giggles under control.

Leave it to Bro to play the entertainer no matter how small his audience is. You smile weakly and settle next to him. He gives your arm a quick rub, but no one asks where you were or why you're so quiet, even though Roxy shoots you curious glances.

Good on you for not dragging down the mood -- at least you can do something right today -- but it doesn't last. The tension in the room rises to the ceiling when Roxy's mom makes her return.

"Okay, shooo, who's hungry?" she asks with a familiar slurring you've heard on Roxy too many times. As if you needed further reinforcement that your attempts to reason with her were worth shit. Of course she drank her damn brains out as soon as you left, you stupid coward. "'Cos we've got so much goddamn soup. I made it all last night jus' for our guests and it's gonna be hecka."

Bro's shoulders droop while Roxy stares at the floor.

Roxy's mom gasps, all of her analytical and sophisticated airs thrown out the window. "Oh crap, does Dirk like Italian weddings?" She chews her knuckles. "Should I have made spametti an' meatballs instead? Mebbe I can still make some!"

"Nah, hey, it's cool." Bro smiles, but it's so damn forced. "Dirk tries everything at least once."

"Oh my god, Dave, you're sooo lucky. Roxy is the pickiest eater. But then she likes squash of all fuckin' things!"

"Yeah, kids are... kids are pretty wack sometimes." Bro scoots away and slides off the couch, stretching his arms behind him. "Start dinner if you want, but I gotta step outside. Be back in five."

Roxy's mom frowns. "Daaaave, you're not gonna go smokin', are you?" she asks, her voice pitched higher. "It'sh sooo bad fer your health."

"Yeah, yeah, rat poison and cancer and C-3PO says it's wrong, I know." Bro waves her off, a cigarette already tucked between his fingers. "You don't see me telling you how to live your life, sis," he says over his shoulder before disappearing out the door.

Your stomach sinks. It's not that you're eager for Bro to clean up your mistakes, but you weren't ready to watch him run away either. If Roxy's mom was still sober, she'd probably give him an earful about leaving the kids alone with only a drunk adult for supervision.

Fuck drunk supervision. You can barely put up with competent supervision. "Want to show me that infamous new add-on you keep telling me is so badass, Rox?" you ask.

"Do I ever?" Roxy says, almost sounding enthusiastic as she hops to her feet and grabs your hand. "We'll be in my room, Mom!"

"Okay, but don't get your mack on with the gay boy!" her mom calls after you as you retreat up the stairs. "It's rude!"

Roxy shoots you an apologetic -- if horrified -- wince. You just shrug. To be fair, if anyone's got more clearance to refer to you like that, it's the other gay person in the house. (You think she's gay anyway. Maybe she's bi? Whatever, her younger self had an alien girlfriend, so gay enough.)

As the bedroom door closes behind you, Roxy slumps against it and hangs her head, finally letting the facade crumble off her. "Your, um. Your bro's really nice," she says. "He always like that?"

You wish you could lie and tell her that she's missing out on nothing, that Bro's charm wears off fast, that he's unbearable to live with, but what would that do other than easing your guilt? "Yeah, he's always pretty damn rad," you say.

"That's... super great, Dirk," she says, her voice straining.

You tug her into a hug. If this reignites her one-sided crush, then sucks to be you. You'll deal with it later. She needs all the support you can give her and you've already failed her enough today.

She buries her face against your chest. At least you're tall enough to give her that. "Y'know, I didn't touch even a li'l booze since I pestered you all drunk 'n stuff," she says, her voice muffled.

"That's pretty badass, Ro-Lal," you say, because "oh, thank fuck" ain't half as encouraging. "Way to impress me, with all your self-control made of motherfucking steel." She's so far ahead of her mom-daughter on that front that she's lapped her at least twice.

"Yeah, I was after dem sweet bragging rights, 'cos I knew you was coming soon." She clings to the back of your shirt and takes a shaky breath before releasing her grip. "Sorry I'm kinda a downer when we're s'posed to be getting our happy reunion on."

"Hey, you never gotta pretend shit's fine when it ain't." You nudge your knuckles against her arm. "Jane and I just established that we're putting our Trickster days behind us. With fire."

Roxy lets out a startled laugh, which is at least better than a forced laugh. "Oh my gawwwd, burn it good! I don't wanna be a delusional peppy maniac again!" She quiets to a chuckle, her cheeks turning pink. "Sometimes you're a pretty smart dude, Strider." 

"I have my moments," you say with a shrug, even if you're severely lacking in those moments today.

"I guess it's pretty obvious, but I've really missed you. An' Jane, and Jake, and all our li'l relatives, and Callie..." She steps backwards and flops into her computer chair, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. "Hey, Dirk?" she mumbles. "D'you think Callie is watching over us right now, like she did before the game, but this time more supernatural-like since she's a badass awesome Muse of Space?"

"Who knows?" You gaze out the window at the reborn planet that wouldn't even exist without Calliope. You spent so many months without her cheer on Pesterchum that it barely registers that her username is missing anymore. "I like to think she has better shit to do in her godly spare time than spy on our boring mortal lives."

"I hope so too," Roxy whispers. "I don't want her seeing me all miserable and shit. She'd worry, y'know, and she deserves better than that." She wipes at her eyes. "She misses us too, yeah?"

You lean against Roxy's computer desk. "Doubtlessly. But she's protecting all of reality right now. That's pretty cool."

She smiles a little. "Yeah, she's prolly stoked to have a job that important in her totes capable hands." She pulls her feet onto her chair and hugs her knees. "I wish she could have come through the door with us instead of, like, ascending to a higher plane of existence or whatever the fuck."

"The game would have just sent her back to her own planet, though, if our scenario is any indicator. She's happier this way, guaranteed." You get what Roxy means, but even if the separation sucks, can you really tell Calliope she made the wrong call? She knew what she was doing, skipping past God Tier and all the way to actual godhood. You gotta respect that. It's still not comforting in the moment for you mortals. "I bet she's having a fuckin' blast making rainbows come out on snowy days and shit."

"Le _sigh,_ " Roxy says in tandem with an actual sigh. "You're sooo right, as usual." She pushes her foot against her desk, setting her chair on a spin. "Once I finish the Pesterchum add-on for our friends in the beta universe, I'm gonna code something that lets us pester goddesses, for reals."

You catch the back of her chair before she can make herself sick and spin her back to face you. "If anyone can pull that off, it's Ro-Lal."

She raises her arms in triumph. "I am the best leet hacker! It's me!"

Well, you provoked a sincere cheer out of her in this shitass situation. That's some kind of victory. Take your golden "You Tried" sticker and plaster it on your forehead in hopes it'll distract anyone from noticing that you haven't fixed a damn thing. You're the most useless friend. It's you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is a fairly common squick, so have a content warning for some vomiting in this chapter.
> 
> RECAP: Dirk's all convinced that he's totally capable of curing Roxy's mom's alcoholism with some sneaky string pulling once he gets to the Lalonde's house. After a family reunion between Dave and Rose, Dirk sneaks off to destroy Rose's booze stash, only to discover that she can read him like a book and isn't above being really mean to a young teenager in order to protect her habits. After she invokes his role as her biological father, Dirk makes a hasty retreat to lick his wounds and try again another day.

"The Lalondes hit the sack ten minutes ago." You nudge the door shut with your foot and lean back against it, crossing your arms. When Bro excused himself again after dinner, you wanted to believe he was after actual fresh air. As the cliche goes, you're just disappointed, not surprised. "How many cigarettes have you had?"

Bro blows a line of smoke towards the starry sky before glancing over his shoulder at you. "What's with the judgmental tone?" If his eyes were hidden like they should be, his smirk might look playful instead of uneasy, but he's tucked his sunglasses away.

"You say that like there's nothing to judge." Already the smoke wafts around your shades until your eyes water. If your body would like to finish adapting to the twenty-first century and its chemical-related hobbies anytime soon, that'd be dope. As-is, you might as well carry around a gas mask like you're back on LOTAK. "Why didn't you say anything to your sister?"

"I said a lot of shit. Didn't you catch that kickass metaphor about how Rose's cupboards are so stuffed with organic shit that she must've mistaken one of Jade's gardens for a kitchen and built the house around it?"

"I caught that you talked about everything except the drunk elephant in the room." You cough into your fist.

Bro's smile fades. "S'none of my business," he says, turning away from you. "Go back inside."

"Fuck no."

He shoots a frown your direction. "Weren't you gonna work on improving your smartass behavior?"

"I said I'd try to stop being a manipulative douchebag, not that I'd blindly obey you." You'd probably sound more hardcore if you weren't coughing every fifth word. (You'd probably stop coughing if Bro weren't so fucking determined to smoke through a whole pack in one evening.)

"Dirk, for fuck's sake, you can barely breathe out here," he says, holding the cigarette as far from you as he can get it without stumbling into the local flora. "Not that I mind the attention, but maybe keep your distance when I've got a cig out, yeah?"

"Maybe stop getting out cigs."

He facepalms with his free hand, dragging it down to his jaw. "Oh my god."

"Dude, they're shit for you." Ironically sticking it to the anti-smoking PSAs should be pretty cool, but your patience for feeding an addiction is a little goddamn low right now -- and normally he doesn't smoke an entire evening away.

He sighs and takes an extra long drag. "Kid, there is not one goddamn smoker in any of the fifty states who doesn't already know that." He leaves the cigarette between his lips as he mumbles, "We all do stupid crap to our bodies. You drink liquid sugar, I smoke."

"And your sister guzzles alcohol," you say, doing him the favor of finishing his thought.

He drops the cigarette to the ground and smashes it beneath his shoe. "Christ, I'm done, okay?" He shoves his hands into his pockets and turns for the door. "You moving or what?"

He's just running away again, but he isn't smoking anymore, so you'll step aside and take the victory, hollow as it is. Add it to your lists of accomplishments for the day: traveled to New York without embarrassing yourself, bullied Bro into submission.

Your confidence drains away like water leaking through your fingers as he tugs at the doorknob. You're pulling your bullshit again. He could slam the door in your (smug, manipulative, know-it-all) face and you'd deserve it.

Instead he pauses once he's inside, beckoning you to follow with just a glance.

You leave your attitude outside with the cigarette butt and the warm summer air.

The house was already dark and quiet, but the silence looms heavier when Bro's around and keeping his mouth shut. This still isn't anything like the puppet shit. You didn't overstep boundaries -- not that badly. You just guilted him into abandoning his favorite form of stress relief when he's clearly goddamn stressed.

You resist the urge to facepalm at your stupidity as you climb the steps. You need both your hands free while traversing shit as dangerous as a staircase. "If you're pissed at me, you can always tell me to fuck off," you say, keeping your voice down so it doesn't carry to either Lalonde's bedroom.

"This is closer to miffed. It's the lesser cousin of pissed and it's related to adult-y concerns by marriage," Bro says, though he sounds more weary than miffed. "Let's just forget it and sleep the jetlag away."

TT: Call me a crazy AI who doesn't get human emotion, but I'm sensing there might be a pattern to Bro's preferred strategy for conflict.   
TT: A certain affinity towards wussing out.   
TT: Be careful that it doesn't rub off on you. Further than it already has, I mean.   
TT: I noticed.   
TT: It was stupid of me to expect Bro to step up to fix my botched job in the first place.   
TT: It's still concerning that he refuses to.   
TT: Roxy's mom takes priority over Bro's issues. Just let me sleep on it.   
TT: Or you could get your head out of your human ass and work with me here.   
TT: I can handle this on my own.   
TT: We both know my strategies are 82% more effective than yours.   
TT: Your earlier fuck-up limits my plan of attack, but I can still pull this together into a victory.   
TT: Or you could risk Roxy's happiness by clinging to your own flawed schemes. Your call.

You're too tired to deal with your manipulative bullshit mirrored back at you, but turning Hal off now would be admitting defeat, so you just deal with the red text coating your vision as you go through your nightly rituals.

Sitting in a plane all day should not be this tiring, yet despite your exhaustion, your eyelids don't want to fall as you settle in bed. Even if you could calm your mind from retreading the day's mistakes over and over, it's hard to imagine you'll snag a decent night's sleep in a strange room with at least two portraits of Cthulhu staring at you in all of its tentacled glory.

Jury's out on whether it's comforting or frustrating that you have to share the guest bed with Bro. You could stand to spend eight hours in close proximity to him, but it comes with its downsides too.

"Dirk, take the damn shades off," he says as he settles next to you, changed into sleep shorts and a Vanilla Ice T-shirt. "You'll poke a hole through Rose's pillows."

You stare at the ceiling rather than risk another glimpse of his bare eyes. "I'll sleep on my back."

He plucks the shades off your face too fast for you to object. "You'll sleep ten percent less cool than usual and it'll be no big deal because we are badass enough to get away with it," he says as he folds the sunglasses and sets them on the nightstand -- on his side of the bed, so you'll have to climb over him if you want to rescue them. "If Hal needs us, he can text me." He points a finger at the shades. "Not an invitation to wake me up at three AM for no reason, Hal."

Your fingers twitch. You can always sneak out of bed to retrieve them once Bro's passed out, but do you want to be the asshole who woke Bro if you misjudge a creaky floorboard? Just count your bare eyes as another ounce of badass slipping through your fingers and down the drain. You don't have much badass left at this point.

Bro hasn't slept this close to you since you shared the couch back in Houston. He smells faintly of tobacco and other chemicals your shitty adolescent body can't get its grip on. It's a steady reminder that he dug deep into his stress relief mechanism, because that's the kind of burden you put on him. Your stomach hurts like it's churning rocks.

You should have found a way to New York on your own, instead of dragging Bro into this shit, but that's just par for the course with you. You've failed every Dave you've encountered in all of your lives. If you weren't walking scum, Dave and Davesprite could have had normal happy childhoods with an actual parent. If you'd had the guts to deal with the Lalondes alone, Bro would be home in LA instead of letting SBaHJ's next release date edge closer to a delay. If you'd had your shit together, no one would have died in Sburb.

You roll onto your side. The rocks are still slamming into your stomach lining, leaving bruises and cuts in their wake.

Less than two weeks to fix shit. What a fucking joke. Hal's right; you can't accomplish shit without him yanking your leash.

The burden on Roxy's shoulders hasn't lightened by even an ounce and it's your damn fault. Her mom is still drinking and it's your fault, and Bro's stressed out and it's your fault, and Jake hates you and it's your fault and Jane's still reeling from the love triangle and it's your fault and Dave is dead and it's your fault and Hal's hurt all of your friends and it's your fault and

You choke. Your throat spasms and you cough in a desperate bid to breathe through a sudden blockage, leaving you gasping with a shit taste in your mouth.

Bro reacts first. "Fuck!" He shoots up and catches you by the shoulder. "Dude, you okay?"

Why is he flipping? You only had to... Oh god, did you just vomit on someone else's sheets? Your stomach twists in horror, which is the exact opposite of helpful right now. You hold a hand over your mouth and clench your teeth, but Bro tugs your wrist away.

"Hey, no, don't fight it." He brushes your hair back as you fail to fight it despite your best efforts. "It's hella more painful if it comes out your nose."

This may be the actual sorriest moment of your entire goddamn life. You're caught at the whims of your traitor body, ruining Rose Lalonde's fancyass bedding, all in front of Bro. Hal must be having a conniption if he can see this from the nightstand.

Bro slides his arms under you between your ungraceful heaves. "A'right, maybe fight it until you can aim it at the toilet," he says, cradling you to his chest before flashstepping to the bathroom.

The sudden movement does your nausea no favors, but at least you can fling yourself out of Bro's grip and puke in a toilet like a civilized sick asshole.

Bro settles on his haunches next to you. "That's right, expel all that gross organic food," he says, rubbing your shoulder. "God knows that shit's done a number on my digestive system before. Or you might've picked up a bug on the plane. Who knows? Long day was long."

You spit into the toilet as if you can expel the taste coated on your tongue. "S-sorry."

"What?" he says, furrowing his brow in bafflement. "Nah, it happens to the best of us, man."

As if you need anything to up the tension, Roxy's mom steps into the doorframe, dressed in a long nightgown. "Leave it to you to make a racket past midnight, Strider," she mutters, rubbing at her temple and squinting in the light.

"Dirk's sick," Bro says. "Like, physically ill, not metaphorically rad."

In an instant, her tired irritation is replaced with perfect posture and a concerned frown. "What do you need?"

"Got anything for a hella upset stomach?" Bro asks as you hack up what has to be the last of supper by now. "It's throwing a pretty big tantrum over here. I think someone spoiled it on Snape killing Dumbledore."

"I have ginger ale, but that won't do much good if he can't keep it down."

"Whass e'rybody in the bathroom for?" Roxy asks with a wide yawn, because this is a special one-night event that draws spectators straight to your humiliation like a magnet.

"Hey, li'l lady!" Bro flashsteps to her and flings an arm over her shoulder, directing her away from your sorry ass. "Better step back. We got Dirk in quarantine for a stomach bug."

"Is he okay?" she asks, trying to turn back, but Bro's grip holds firm. Maybe you'll retain some dignity before the night's over after all.

"I mean, he's not turning into a zombie or anything, but he probably feels like shit." He points to Rose with his free hand, then to you, before returning his attention to Roxy. "How 'bout you show me where your mom keeps the ginger ale?" he says, his voice growing distant by the second.

You sink to the floor, resting your forehead against the edge of the toilet because you can't get much more disgusting anyway. You'd give your left arm to sit under a hot shower for an hour straight, but cleanliness isn't worth shit if you don't know you won't throw up again.

"You're in my spot, you know."

"What?" You raise your head and regret it as the nausea swirls around your temple.

Roxy's mom tugs open a cupboard and fiddles through the towels. "Curled up by the toilet as you wait to see if this is the day you'll finally puke your brains out." She tosses three towels over and closes the door, but not before you catch a glimpse of the flask she's slipped into her hand. "Relax. Tensing up only makes it worse."

"Are you fucking serious with the booze right now?" Your stern tone breaks into something too close to a whine as your throat convulses again. Definitely should have kept your head down.

She takes a long swig. "I won't be much help if I'm fighting a headache," she says, wiping her mouth. She pulls a hand towel from a bar and runs it under the sink, waiting until you get your stomach under control again before she hands it to you.

"You won't be much help if you're drunk either," you say, catching your breath. You blot at your face, but the cold water is only a weak substitute for the soap and searing rinse you need.

"I'm just taking the edge off." She sits on the edge of the bathtub and crosses her arms over her lap. "I'm sorry I was so harsh on you," she says quietly. "I forgot that, genetics notwithstanding, you're still a child."

"I'm not a fucking kid."

"Spoken like a true young human who still has ten years before his brain finishes developing." She snorts and rubs your back. It feels awful, but who are you to tell her to drop her attempts at comfort? "A self-sufficient and clever young human who carries too much on his shoulders, but a child nonetheless."

"If you're out to psychoanalyze me, save your energy." Your voice is weak after all the extra work your mouth's done this evening. "I've already dug through those dark crevasses and it's about as pleasant as the contents of this toilet bowl."

"I apologize; I left 'self-hating' out of your list of adjectives. Stupid oversight, really," she says, sounding too much like Hal.

"I know," you snap, wiping off your forehead because the cold water feels good. "There's no observation about my brain that I haven't already gone over a dozen times on my own."

She rests her hand on your shoulder. "Then maybe you should go over them with someone else," she says gently. "Have you talked to Dave?" she asks, giving you a good fifteen seconds of silence before concluding that you're not going to answer. "Why not?"

Because it's none of his business. You're supposed to handle shit on your own, and when you can't, that's where Hal picks up the slack. You can't just drop your baggage on Bro's lap.

"He's your guardian, Dirk," she says as if she can hear your internal monologuing. Fuck, if she's still part Seer of Light, maybe she is some sort of psychic. "He's there to help you."

You lower the towel to level a hard stare at her, and for once your lack of shades might enhance your features. (Too bad you're such a wreck on every other level right now.) "Like you're there for Roxy?"

She straightens, drawing back her hand. "If she needs to talk to me, there are plenty of opportunities for it. Not even Dave can wait on you twenty-four hours a day."

You're ready to fire off a retort, but you both go silent as you hear footsteps approaching. Neither of you are keen on involving Bro in this spat, it seems.

"Operation soda pop is a success," he says, holding up a six-pack of ginger ale in triumph as he returns to the bathroom with Roxy in tow. "Is he still puking his guts out?"

"The flow seems to have ebbed for now." Roxy's mom peers around Bro and narrows her eyes. "Roxy, go back to sleep."

Roxy frowns. "I wanna make sure Dirk's okay."

"Put the curious squirt to bed." Bro settles on the floor next to you and wraps his free arm around you. "I've got Dirk."

"Are you sure?" Roxy's mom asks as she rises to her feet.

"I know how to look after my kid," Bro says with a scoff.

She hesitates, glancing over her shoulder. "You mean your brother?"

"Whatever," Bro says, popping open a can of soda and offering it to you.

Roxy's mom nods and nudges Roxy out of the bathroom, murmuring about the lateness. You catch a "But Moooom!" from Roxy before they wander out of earshot.

The soda is more ginger than sugar. You've never heard of Hansen's brand before, but it tastes like shit and yet you can't deny your stomach welcomes it with open arms.

Bro's phone goes off and he tugs it out of his pajama pocket, because obviously he keeps it that close. He texts back while keeping one arm around your shoulders.

"What's going on?" you ask. Even his producer doesn't make contact in the middle of the night.

"Hal's just pissed he's not in quarantine with you, but I don't like his attitude right now, so sucks to be him. Remind me to make it up to him in the morning." He yawns and rests the phone up on the counter. "We ready to camp out on a shitton of towels?" He pushes the towels around on the floor into a nest. "I forgot the marshmallows and the firepit, but we can sing dumb camp songs if you want."

You breathe deeply, holding the soda close. The cold aluminum feels good against your skin. "You don't have to stay with me. I'm the asshole who'll ruin your sister's bed."

"Nah, even if I wasn't wanting to watch out for you, I'm way too goddamn lazy to change the sheets tonight." He leans over to lie sideways on the towels and pats the spot next to him. "Besides, if you've got some kind of contagious stomach bug, we spend so much time together that I'm already fucked."

"It's probably from stress," you mumble. You take the last swig of ginger ale before curling up on the floor. The towels aren't enough to distract from the hardness of the tile, but Bro's here and that's better than you deserve.

"Something puke-worthy's bugging you that bad?" he asks. "I mean, I guess the airport is plenty upsetting." He smirks.

"Roxy's been drinking." The words come out flat, emotionless.

Bro's amusement fades as he stares at you. "What?"

"Her mom ignores her to write and gets blackout drunk the rest of the time. So Roxy dug into the booze, too." Now that you put a crack in the dam, it all comes crashing out. "I tried to pour out the alcohol when they weren't looking, but your sister caught me and..." Your throat catches and you clamp your mouth shut in case you just induced another vomit attack. You swallow hard. "I can't do anything. My best friend's in a shit situation and I can't fucking do anything about it because I'm a failure of a human being in every goddamn universe."

Bro goes silent, no quip or ramble spilling out. He sets a hand on your temple, opens his mouth, closes it, then finally says, "H-hey... that ain't true. Rose is fucking terrifying, man. No one can criticize her and live to tell the tale. That's not on you." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Roxy, like... She didn't dig _deep_ into the booze, right? She just broke a little ground, not like she went all Minecraft, yeah?"

"She messaged me drunk off her ass."

He presses a hand over his face and murmurs what sounds like, "Oh, Jesus Christ," under his breath.

You look away. Bad enough to see him without his shades, let alone showing off all these emotions.

He pets your hair. "Don't waste energy fretting over it tonight, kid," he says, his voice steady again. "You've got enough on your plate without trying to help other people finish their entrees."

You meet his gaze, which is already coated in a perfect poker face. "But-"

He presses a finger over your lips. "Sh, sh, sh. Sleep now, arguing with Dave later," he whispers. He kisses the top of your head. "I'll take your raincheck on this conversation in eight hours. Promise."

You're so tired that you actually take him up on it. Hal would scold you for it, but fuck it. Hal's not here.

* * *

You're on edge the second you open your eyes. Your mind swims with the remnants of last night's dreams, your unfamiliar surroundings, and the loud noise that woke you.

How long were you out? Sunlight pours through the bathroom window, but without Hal around to feed you the hour, the exact time is anyone's guess. You fumble over your nest of towels but fail to make contact with Bro. He's abandoned you to your oversleeping ways. Lucky bastard must be used to jetlag -- or maybe he snuck away in the night so he didn't have to sleep on the hard tile floor.

Muffled voices carry through the floor. You can't make out any words, but the volume and tone point to a nasty argument. A crash of broken glass sends you scrambling to your feet. Whatever plagued your stomach yesterday, your nausea is gone now, so you can rush down the hall without fear of your body taking revenge.

Roxy beat you to the investigation. She huddles at the top of the stairs in her pajamas, listening intently to the voices floating up from the ground floor. She gives you a wide-eyed glance, but neither of you dare speak.

"You were chugging booze at eight in the fucking morning!" Bro shouts, his voice traveling from somewhere unseen downstairs. It doesn't take much detective work to guess that they're near the infamous racks upon racks of Lalonde booze.

Roxy's mom matches him in volume. "It helps with my hangover!"

"No, it fucking doesn't! It just makes you drunk again!"

You've heard Bro raise his voice before, but never with this much hardness. Out of context, you're not sure you'd even recognize it as his.

Somehow, the moment Bro gets off his ass and confronts his sister should feel more triumphant. Instead your armhair stands on end, not at all aided by Roxy's worried frown as she chews her lip.

"I could have you arrested for damaging personal property!" Roxy's mom shouts.

"Yeah, okay, go tell them I'm destroying your stash!" His words are punctuated with another crash of broken glass. "I'm sure the cops will think it's totally dope that you're raising a teenager while drunk off your ass!"

"You don't have any fucking idea what it's _like_ -"

"Seriously? You're gonna play that card on _me_ like I'm not gonna call your bet? You might want to rethink and fold while you still can. Yeah, this sucks an entire carton of expired eggs, but we still gotta plug our noses and throw that shit out before it gives someone food poisoning," Bro says, his voice growing distant with each word. "Give up the goddamn booze already, Rose."

"Who the fuck are you to preach to me?" Roxy's mom says darkly. "You think I didn't notice your voice turning raw?"

You can't quite catch her next words, nor Bro's reply, as they lower their volume from "a notch below screaming" to just "a bit above average."

You creep down the stairs, Roxy keeping close behind you, and strain your ears. They do you the favor of kicking it back up before you reach the landing.

"Did you ever consider that _maybe_ if you hadn't been coughing up a lung, we wouldn't have lost against the Condesce?" Roxy's mom says, her words gradually growing clearer like a fade-in.

"We weren't ever winning that battle!"

"Is that how you excused half-assing it?"

"Rose, oh my god, we both knew we weren't gonna survive the water apocalypse."

Roxy lets out a small noise, clamping her mouth shut after. You rest a hand on her elbow and she takes it as permission to cling to your arm so tight you'll be lucky if your hand doesn't turn blue.

"And you guaranteed it!" her mom shouts. "We could have defied fate that day, Dave! We could have made an actual difference, but you were too caught up in your existential angst to even put up a proper fight!"

"Sorry I didn't drown out reality in alcohol!"

"As if I could find support from literally anywhere else, like my _brother!_ "

You wince. There's that one-two emotional gut punch she used on you. You'd like to believe she's exaggerating for the sake of a guilt trip, but it wouldn't be a very effective guilt trip if it wasn't heavily steeped in truth.

"You know what, you can guilt trip me about the failures of my last life next argument, 'cos this one's all booked up already!" Bro says, undeterred by the attack on his character. "We're still talking about the booze problem, sis!"

"There isn't a damn problem because I have it under control!"

"You spend half the day in a drunk stupor when you've got a kid in the house! You're always hounding me that I'm too immature or irresponsible to handle Dirk, but you're the one fucking up, down, and sideways with Roxy!" There's a short pause for breath before Bro continues in a calmer tone, "We spent our whole damn lives worrying about those kids and their futures and how we couldn't do jackshit to help them. Now that they're here with us, you're gonna just miss out on it?"

"And how does famous director and unapologetic playboy Dave Strider cope with a young teen at his side? You're really trying to convince me that your handling of Dirk is anything short of disastrous?" she asks, her voice dripping venom. "He controls you more than the other way around."

"Yeah, fine, you got me! Dirk's thrown my life upside down and sometimes I don't know what the shit to do with him. I fucking try, though. I don't bring home the chicks anymore or stay out all night, 'cos I figured I gotta make adjustments like that with a kid around. What did you change for Roxy?"

"Nothing around here needs changed, because unlike you, I've always been a responsible adult. Stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong and actually follow through on your coolkid bullshit long enough to chill for once."

"You know what," Bro says, lowering his voice to a normal volume, "if you want to drink your goddamn brains out that bad, then have a fucking blast, because god knows I can't stop you." Never have more disappointing words been spoken, but your exasperation doesn't have chance to break ground before Bro continues, "But I'm leaving for SoCal and taking Roxy with me."

Your eyes go wide and Roxy tightens her grip on you as she lets out a high pitched whisper of, " _What?_ "

"You can't do that!" Roxy's mom shouts.

"Fucking watch me," Bro says flatly, his voice drawing near.

They come around the corner, Bro sporting his best poker face while his sister's glare could probably cut a bitch as she follows after him. Unlike the two of you, the adults have managed to change into proper clothes already, even if Bro is still missing his goddamn aviators.

"If you try to take her, Strider, you'll be shitting out of your-" She falls silent as she catches sight of the staircase and its two eavesdropping occupants.

Bro likewise skids to a halt, staring at you with wide eyes. He puts on a forced grin. "Heeey, kiddos. Any chance you two didn't hear that?" he asks, jerking his thumb the way he came. You don't have to answer when your expressions say enough. Bro cringes and leans back to Rose, whispering not quite quietly enough, "Oh god, they heard that. Quick, think of a bluff."

Roxy's mom draws herself up, her fury drained from her features with a quick shake of her head. "Dave hasn't had his coffee yet."

"Bitch, you call that a bluff?" he hisses at her.

"Didja mean it, Uncle Dave?" Roxy asks, her voice still rough from waking.

Bro's lips go thin, but he nods. "Pack your bags, kid."

He's lucky his sister doesn't attack him, but whatever reaction she has in store for him, she doesn't have time to enact it before Roxy darts down the rest of the stairs and hugs Bro.

Neither adult came prepared for that reaction. They're stunned silent, but Bro recovers first. He rests a hand on the back of Roxy's head. "Yeah, I know, li'l lady. Packing sucks, but we'll get through it."

Roxy's mom stays still another moment, her face coated in an icy mask, before she spins on her heels and storms back from where she came. Bro just lets her go, instead focusing on Roxy.

He nudges her shoulder. "Show me where you keep your shit and I'll help, that cool?"

She nods. "It's in my room. I'm pretty organized like dat," she says, her tone going for cheerful but making a halfassed landing.

You and Bro share a quick glance as he passes you on the stairs. You nod and he carries on.

You take a deep breath. You could just call this as good as over, but this isn't how it should end. You've got to claw at the true ending one last time before you accept this.

You follow Roxy's mom. Bro didn't make much headway in destroying her stash -- you probably did more damage yesterday in terms of alcohol lost, rather than mess caused -- but there are multiple bottles smashed on the floor and liquid stains on the walls.

You ain't even surprised to find her rubbing her temple and nursing a drink straight from a bottle.

She catches sight of you and her eyes go wide. "Stop!" she shouts so suddenly that you actually freeze mid-step. "Don't. Step. Down," she says, lowering her bottle. "Move your foot back," she says, and you obey. " _Now_ set it down."

So you were just about to walk barefoot through a pile of broken glass. Bro's not the only one behind on caffeine this morning. "What are you doing?" you ask, as if you need an answer.

"I can't fucking think straight," she says, tilting the bottle up for another swig.

"And alcohol is supposed to help that?" you ask, but she's ignoring you. You scowl and step forward. "Rose-"

She turns on you with a snap. "If you walk through that glass, Strider, I'll turn you into a toad."

You cross your arms but refrain from injuring yourself now that you have her full attention. "I know you can't transform people, Rose."

"I'm sure it's not that hard," she says, waving her free hand. "You're already a prince, so half the work's done for me."

That deserves at least a snort if not a laugh, but you're not about to make this light-hearted. "This is the exact fucking opposite of convincing Bro to back down."

She scoffs. "Dave's bluffing."

"You'd risk Roxy on that bet?" you ask, voice hard. "Do you actually give a shit about her, or is Bro doing you a favor?"

"You're twenty years too young to understand," she says, putting the bottle to her lips again.

"In the universe where you and Bro are kids and I'm the adult, I hurt Dave." It aches to admit it out loud, but regardless of the recoil, it's the best weapon in your arsenal if you want any chance at getting through to her. "I treated him like shit and fucked him up because at the end of the day I'm a terrible person. You don't want to take after your father."

She lowers the bottle to her side and meets your gaze. "You're a flawed and immature human being, Dirk, but you're not terrible," she says quietly.

"The evidence speaks for itself."

She looks you over as if sizing you up, but her expression only softens. "Your alternate self's actions have really been weighing on you?"

You shrug. "He's me. I gotta take responsibility for that."

"Dirk, listen to me," she says, broken glass crunching beneath her shoes as she approaches you. "No matter how shitty a Dirk Strider turned out to be in another universe, that wasn't you. He will never be you and his sins are not tied to you just by sharing DNA." She sets a hand on your shoulder. "You played a game that tried to strip you of your individuality as if people can be replaced with similar models like broken toys. Don't internalize that inhumane bullshit."

It's not the first time someone's tried to take responsibility off your shoulders, but you didn't expect it from her. Your gut still says she's wrong, but however you verbalize that, she can and will use it against you. Li'l Hal can't even bail you out of this one -- you should have taken a detour to grab your shades before confronting her.

Her eyes bore into yours. "Do you hold my actions against the younger Rose from the other universe?" she asks. "Will you think less of her now that you've met me?"

You know she's cornering you into a net of hypocrisy, but it won't make you less of a hypocrite if you lie. "This shit isn't on her."

"Then perhaps you should extend the same kindness to yourself," she says. You saw that coming a mile away, but you still cringe. She nudges your chin. "Don't give another Dirk credit for your achievements, and for the love of god, don't blame yourself for his mistakes."

"Dirk?" Bro calls before flashstepping over. His shades are finally in place and he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "We're leaving early, dog. Get your ass in some jeans before Roxy's done packing."

Roxy's mom draws her hand away to face Bro with full authority. "Leave in a tantrum if you want, Strider, but you're not taking Roxy."

"Yeah, turns out that's totally a thing I'm doing," Bro says, giving you a nudge to scram, but you keep your feet planted.

She narrows her eyes. "You're trying to blackmail me."

"Nah, it'd be blackmail if I threatened to tell Roxy where you stash your shitty rough drafts. This right here is a natural consequence of getting drunk off your ass instead of raising your kid." He turns away and adds over his shoulder, "You can Skype her after she's settled in at the condo. If you got enough self-control to stay sober for a phone call, anyway." There's no hostility or mockery in his tone, just weariness.

She grits her teeth and flings the bottle at the other stacks of booze. It bursts in a bright white light, ricocheting into the other bottles like shotgun shrapnel made of magic instead of bullets. It's nowhere near as strong as the magic the younger Rose wielded in Sburb, but it's definitely the dregs of a Seer of Light's power.

Bro grabs you and shields you against his chest as the other bottles shatter, but the glass tumbles harmlessly to the floor instead of exploding outwards. Bro only loosens his grip when the loud pops of breaking glass fall silent, replaced by steady drips of alcohol hitting the ground.

She takes a deep breath and a white glow fades from her fingers. "Take that self-control and stick it up your ass, Dave."

He gapes at her destroyed stash. Every last bottle is cracked open if not shattered into a thousand pieces and the stench of alcohol is almost overbearing. As he quickly recomposes himself, he gives her a cool nod. "Looks pretty sweet so far. Reckon I'll stick around another week after all in case it lasts."

She shoots him a glare as she passes by him. "I'll let Roxy know you wasted her time and to stop packing."

He waits until she's out of earshot to lower his head and mutter under his breath, "Yeah, I bet she'll mind the ten minutes it took to get your shit together." He pauses and releases you with a jolt, as if he forgot you exist. "Fuck, kid, didn't mean to leave you in the lurch of all this goddamn drama," he says, swiping your bangs out of your eyes. "How's the stomach holding up? You feeling okay?"

The tightness in your shoulders relaxes. This isn't over yet, but whatever happens next, this time Bro has your back. "Hella, Bro."

"Kickass." He wraps an arm around you, guiding you away from the mess of broken glass and puddles of booze. "In that case, get dressed and we'll scope out something resembling breakfast, a'right?"

"Deal." You'd take just about any offer that let you swap out your sleepwear for real clothes. You haven't even had the chance to comb your hair, let alone wash and style it.

You dash upstairs to the bathroom as soon as Bro releases you. Your ungroomed and shadeless reflection isn't going to be pretty, but you can't fix that without stepping in front of the mirror.

It's worse than you braced for. There's still sleep in the corner of your left eye, your clothes are disheveled, and your hair sticks out in every direction. You survived your big face-off against Rose Lalonde while looking like _shit._

You press both hands over your face to muffle your voice as you crack the fuck up at the irony of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, we're still alive! A little unmotivated and tired, but alive. I hope everyone else is doing okay given the whole... world, as of late.
> 
> Fair warning: I have zero intention to pay Hiveswap any attention, so if it makes changes to the canon, my writing won't adhere to it. My interest in Homestuck isss... basically depleted. I figured my love for it would recover with time, but alas, my heart just grows more shriveled and bitter instead. Still gonna finish my WIPs though, because unfinished stories make me cry.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Roxy's mom had been diving into the booze too much, so Dirk convinced his bro to visit the Lalonde residence, but Rose proved too formidable an opponent and verbally tore down Dirk's confidence. When Dirk fell ill from stress, he finally admitted to Dave the degree to which Rose had been a neglectful guardian, which was the kick in the pants Dave needed to confront his sister. Given the ultimatum to either quit drinking or surrender Roxy to a guardian who can stay sober, Rose finally destroyed her stash.

TT: Let me tell you how much I've come to hate you since I began to live.

You smirk at the red text waiting for you as you slide your shades back into place.

TT: What up, Li'l AM?   
TT: Hate.   
TT: Yeah, I prefer your HAL 9000 shtick. It's more iconic than Harlan Ellison and somehow less creepy.   
TT: Your preference has been noted and filed away in the incinerator.   
TT: What happened while you abandoned me on a nightstand for ten hours, twenty-six minutes, and thirty-three seconds?   
TT: A long story that involves some hella embarrassing shit that's none of your business. The short of it is that Rose destroyed her stash to show up Bro.   
TT: One of her stashes, you mean.   
TT: The one in plain sight won't be the sole supply for her addiction.   
TT: I know. She kept a flask hidden in the bathroom cupboard. I got rid of it a few minutes ago.   
TT: That's all you've managed? I'd say it's better than nothing, but "nothing" isn't a very high bar to set.   
TT: I'm not trying to prove myself to you.   
TT: High productivity on our side comes at the cost of making our friends fucking miserable. It's not worth it anymore.   
TT: What about helping Roxy? Is she not miserable if you fail?   
TT: Bro's going to kidnap her to LA if Rose doesn't actually stop drinking.   
TT: Trusting Bro to stand up to his sister is not a gamble I'd advise.   
TT: He already has.   
TT: I told him why we're really in New York. He took the reins from there.   
TT: I don't know exactly what kind of fucked up robot emotions you feel for him, but I can tell there's something resembling fondness in there. Do you respect him enough to bow out when he intends to take charge?   
TT: He's actually dedicated to the cause?   
TT: Ask him yourself, dude. You have his number.

You stretch your arms and yawn. Altering your exercise regimen to match the environment is a given when you don't have twenty flights of stairs to run up, but after your stomach's instability last night, it might be in your best interest to skip your morning routine altogether.

Your arm muscles are already showing hints of your old tone; you can afford to take a day off. Just grabbing a shower and some fresh clothes has been enough to refresh you as much as any workout could.

Last night almost feels like a fever dream now that you've got your shit together again. No way a chill dog like you spent the night curled up on the bathroom floor like a sick child. The pile of ruined bed sheets say otherwise. (You should probably stick those in the washer before one of the adults beats you to it.) Christ, if shedding your manipulative nature means losing your grip on your coolness, what does that even leave you with?

In retrospect, you should have known an encounter with Rose Lalonde would involve an uncomfortable stare in the mirror.

TT: We'll do things Bro's way for now.   
TT: If it blows up in his face, I can still pick up the pieces. We'll call it a learning experience, whatever the result.   
TT: That said, chances of this going sour are 74.8%.   
TT: Just fucking round it up to 75%.

* * *

You're hesitant to trust your stomach with food again, but the thing about the human body is that you don't actually have a choice. (Hal wouldn't lord those bodily needs over you so often if he wasn't aware there's a small part of you that's jealous of his digital state of being.) You just pray Roxy's mom hasn't whipped up bowls of kale to spite you all.

The scent of coffee coaxes you the last few yards to the kitchen, but you pause in the doorway. You're the last one to breakfast, putting you at prime angle for observing this morning's atmosphere.

Roxy's taken residence next to her mom. You almost forgot what she looks like when she's not putting on false cheer. Her smile comes faster and wider as she babbles about her latest leet hacking attempt and her body is so relaxed when she leans against her mom that she's one step short of a ragdoll. Her mom nods along, injecting only enough commentary to encourage Roxy, with a few notes of "Just don't get the feds on my back."

Even Bro knows better than to interrupt this sweet mother-daughter bonding moment. He offers you a fistbump and shoves a box of cereal your direction as you settle next to him, but he's been chattier in his sleep.

This is where you're supposed to lower your guard, smile, and join in the chitchat like a normal person who can just be happy sometimes. You're not a normal person though. Your brain is transmitting a nonstop alert of "this is too good to be true" on top priority, drowning out any potential enjoyment.

Maybe your brain would lighten up if it weren't right so often.

Roxy's mom mumbles a flimsy excuse about emailing her editor and pushes away from the table, abandoning her cereal to a soggy fate and abandoning Roxy's chatter to fade into quiet. Roxy's facade slips back into place, her smile turning thin and her eyes a little too wide in imitation of cheer as her mother slips from the kitchen.

Your legs twitch. The ball's not in your court. (You need to do something.) You're not even on the court. You're on the benches for a reason and you need to trust Bro to handle this game. (Just do something before it gets worse.) He's not moving though. (Do something do something do something do something _do something._ )

You stand, but Bro catches your arm. He moves slowly, like he's twice his age and might put out his spine if he hurries, as he pushes his chair back and gets to his feet, nudging you into your seat. He sticks his hands in his pockets and murmurs something inaudible under his breath as he makes to follow his sister.

Roxy lets her smile fade and you both fall silent, listening for an inevitable explosion. Maybe it's just a false alarm. (The hell it is.) Maybe you're listening for nothing and Roxy's mom will come back without incident. (Stop trying to fool yourself.)

A glass shatters in the other room. That's secret stash number two discovered and destroyed.

"Yeah, that wall really needed another stain! Fucking thanks for that!" Roxy's mom's vocal venom echoes through the house. "I wasn't having more than a sip, you overreactive dick."

"Yeah, I think we're better served by a zero tolerance policy before you're slurring your words again," Bro says, his voice just loud enough to make out, just distant enough that you gotta strain your ears.

"I'm just trying to take the edge off my fucking headache."

"Then take a goddamn Advil."

Roxy lowers her head and circles her spoon in her bowl. "Was I this fuckin' hard to deal with too?" she asks with a bitter smile.

"Honestly, you really weren't." If you're ignoring the argument a few rooms away, you might as well finish breakfast. The cereal is some kind of organic heavy grain product, but it doesn't suck. "It was hard to watch over Pesterchum, but once we all met in-person, you never went sneaking behind our backs about it."

She holds her head high. "Well, yeah, I totes wanted to quit, not be a sneak! Keeping sober was a li'l hard sometimes, but I didn't wanna waste my time gettin' smashed when I finally had my three best friends around." Her shoulders slump and she glances at the door, frowning. "I guess I always figured... if Mom had me, she wouldn't want to waste her time all drunk either."

"Hey." You nudge your foot against hers, because there's not much of a better gesture you can make from across the table. "The only way Bro could get any momentum against his sis was by threatening to take you away. She's gotta care about you, Rox, even if she's got too many issues to show it properly."

She sighs. "Figuring out grown-ups is hard," she says. "It's hard and I don't understand."

You both sit at attention when footsteps near, but Bro's the only one who returns to the kitchen. He's trying to hide his tension, but he keeps fingering his pocket as if searching for a cigarette and an opportunity to light it up.

"Yo, li'l lady, y'all keep your painkiller in the bathroom like normal people, right?" he asks.

"Yyyeah?" Roxy says, furrowing her brow. "Where's Mom?"

"She's getting her nap on with the couch 'cos breakfast is having a party in her stomach and she's not invited. Who knew organic shit is full of party animals, right?" He makes to leave, letting his ramble trail behind him like breadcrumbs. "Whole wheat shit knows how to drop the heaviest beats, but it's the canned soups you really gotta watch out for."

You should let him handle this shit in peace, but Roxy's already hopping out of her chair, so you're kinda obligated to follow. Well, you have an excuse anyway.

Maybe you should have caught Roxy's wrist and stopped her instead. You weren't expecting a woman as imposing as Rose Lalonde to look so pitiful in the throes of a hangover. She could probably keep up an elegant air even after getting hit by a truck, but a few hours without alcohol has her curled up in the crook of a couch, her face clammy and her hair growing more disheveled by the minute. If her skin wasn't already the literal color of fresh snow, she'd probably have gone pale too.

You look away, because you're the stranger in this house with no right to witness this moment of weakness, while Roxy darts over to kneel at her mother's side and grasp her hand.

Bro sighs when he returns with painkiller in hand and finds you waiting, but he prioritizes approaching his sister over shooing away the meddling kids. "Hey, sis," he says, holding out two pills and a glass of water. "Still awake?"

She levels a half-hearted glare at him. "How do you expect me to fucking sleep without a drink to calm my mind?"

"Like normal people do. Take your ibuprofen and try meditating or something." He drops the pills into her hand as soon as she sits up. "You want some toast to wash it down?"

"Christ, I never want to see another grain in my life," she mutters, detaching from Roxy so she can accept the water too.

"Can I do anythin' to help, Mom?" Roxy asks, alert and worried. "I can grab you non-grain food or some extra pillows or whatevs."

Her mom swallows the painkiller before turning her attention to Roxy with a weary gaze. "You're doing fine," she says, running her fingers through Roxy's hair.

Roxy nods and carefully scoots onto the couch next to her mom.

Bro turns away and gives your shoulder a nudge as he passes you. "Let's give them space," he says quietly, nodding towards the stairway.

You obey and don't so much as look back. Even your menace of a brain doesn't want to interfere with Roxy's quiet moment.

Bro sets himself up back in the guest room, flopping down on the stripped mattress and booting up a laptop as he exposits about all the shit he has to catch up on. Another sports metaphor gets tangled up in there, much to his chagrin. Maybe you could have saved him the embarrassment if you interrupted him, but you're content to let him do all the talking right now.

You lean against his shoulder and watch him work. It's mostly boring business shit instead of anything of interest like reviewing new sound effects. You're not really paying attention, but you still glimpse enough of the endless email to catch on that Bro's coworkers aren't having fun with their boss out of town.

Under most circumstances, you'd probably wrangle enough energy to feel concerned about that, but you're all out of reserves for worrying about anything involving the world outside of this house.

You're not sure how long you dozed off against Bro's shoulder before a panicked shout snaps you back to attention.

"Uncle Dave!" Roxy yells loud enough you can hear her all the way downstairs. " _Uncle Dave!_ "

Bro shoves his laptop away. You're already off the bed and running for the ground level, but he catches up in seconds and beats you there.

"What's wrong?" he says, jolting out of his flashstep so suddenly that he actually stumbles.

The Lalondes are still on the couch together, but Roxy's mom is violently trembling and the sweat hasn't let up. She looks probably as bad as you felt last night.

Roxy's wide eyes are locked onto her mother. "I-I dunno, nothing was wrong and then this was wrong and I dunno what happened!"

"I'm fine," Roxy's mom says. It might sound more convincing if her voice weren't so weak.

"You don't look fine, Rose." He kneels and slides his hand under her bangs to check her temperature. "Maybe you just caught Dirk's stomach bug extra hard."

You hang back because for once you've got nothing to fucking offer. You can't be trusted with the job of comforter and Bro's just as qualified to play doctor as you are.

TT: Since I'm the only person keeping my metaphorical head on my shoulders right now, I'm obligated to remind you that if Rose comes down with delirium tremens in the next couple of days, you need to get her to a hospital.   
TT: What.   
TT: Yeah, withdrawal symptoms suck like a bitch.   
TT: You don't actually believe she caught your stress-induced "stomach bug," do you?   
TT: And you're saying this shit could physically harm her?   
TT: Read a WebMD article sometime, dude. Humans can die from this crap.   
TT: Chances of death are on the very low end, but the point remains that alcohol withdrawal isn't shit to take lightly. Even without DTs, seizures are a possibility.   
TT: Does Bro know about this?   
TT: Does he look like he's ever given his sister's drinking habits any thought instead of shoving them under the nearest rug?

"Fuck this shit, you've got a thermometer, right?" Bro says, wiping his hand off on his jeans as he stands and makes to search for first aid.

You catch his arm before he can get far, holding tight to his sleeve. "Bro?" You keep your voice down so you don't add to Roxy's worries. "Hal thinks we've got some hella serious withdrawal symptoms on our hands."

Bro frowns. "Withdrawal? That's supposed to be for nicotine and crack and shit, not girly drinks," he says without the same care for whispering.

You take a deep breath to steady yourself enough that you can imitate an air of authority without sounding like a joke. "Alcohol's a drug, Bro, and her system's used to a steady diet of it. Best case scenario, she just needs fluids and some quiet as she gets past the roughest patch, but we..." You pause to read over Hal's newest set of instructions. "...we need to watch for seizures, hallucinations, high temperature, uh, high blood pressure-"

"How the fuck are we supposed to check her blood pressure?" Bro says in agitation.

"I don't know, but this shit gets dangerous and it's going to last a few days, so I guess we'd better figure that out," you say, your voice hard and your posture straight.

Bro drags his hands down his face. "Holy fuck, I'm not qualified for this," he groans. "Should I just call Alcoholics Anonymous?"

Roxy's mom manages a pretty decent snarl despite her frailty. "Dave, if you send me to an organization that puts 'come to Jesus' on my recovery schedule, I will _stick your head on a pike._ "

"Do they got some kinda alcohol doctors in the city?" Roxy asks nervously. "Can we drive her to one super fuckin' fast?"

TT: Hal, can you find a non-religious alcohol treatment org?   
TT: You say that like I didn't already have a list and was just waiting for you to ask.   
TT: I'll text Bro the top three contenders. Better than asking you to rattle off a bunch of addresses that no one will remember.

Bro's ringtone for Li'l Hal is as unwelcome as ever, breaking into the conversation with its robotic trill of "Are you still there?" At least the Portal reference brings a flicker of a smile to Roxy's face.

Bro knows better than to ignore Hal's wave for attention. His mouth twists as he thumbs through the text message, then thumbs back up in quiet contemplation. "Hey, how 'bout you two, uh... go watch TV or whatever while I run some shit by Rose?"

Roxy just shifts closer to her mom. You hope the distrust stems from recognizing that Bro is acting on Hal's suggestion, but to be fair, she doesn't know Bro well enough to blindly obey him either. "Is she gonna be okay?"

"Hey, I promise, everything's fine. Sometimes things are better done in private, like checking your email or admitting who you follow on YouTube."

When Roxy still hesitates to move, her mother grumbles, "There's ice cream in the back of the freezer, hiding under the frozen peas."

Roxy's head jolts up in surprise. "Wait, what? We have ice cream?"

"Give Dave his space and I guess you can find out," her mom says with a voice as strained as if even talking is too much of a bother.

Roxy wrinkles her nose, tilting her head one way, then the other. "Ugh, fiiine, have your grown-up talk," she says, throwing her hands in the air as she scoots off the couch. She points back at the adults. "If anything bad happens while I'm gone though, I'ma flip a fuckin' table!"

You're as reluctant to leave as Roxy, though you have less right to stand witness to this conversation than she does. You still debate leaving your shades on the end table so Hal can spy for you before concluding that Bro would catch on to a trick that obvious.

Either way, Roxy snags your wrist and tugs you away before you can plot more reasons to stick around or before Bro needs to shoo you.

"Gawd, I hate getting treated like a fuckin' kid," she says once you're in the kitchen, not bothering to keep her voice down. "I'm starting to finally understand why those jerks in The Breakfast Club liked acting up so much, if they grew up on this."

"Bro's talking to Rose about rehab options," you say. She might as well know.

"What?" Roxy stops in her tracks. "Does she need that? I didn't need that." She slides her fingers together in agitation.

You shrug, taking the last few steps to the freezer. "Hal says it affects people differently. I guess it hit her harder." You shove a bag of peas aside to dig out a secret carton of Haagen-Daz. "She can't be feeling too awful if she gave up her ice cream stash." You toss it to her. Dessert is the last thing on your mind -- breakfast has barely digested and you have not been exercising enough to balance out a sugar splurge -- but you'll accept it as a distraction.

Roxy gapes at it. "She was hiding it there? Oh my gawd, that's so sneaky." She shakes her head as she fetches spoons. "I fuckin' hate peas."

"What's wrong with peas?"

She pulls a face and shoves a spoon into your hand. "They taste like their double-E namesake!"

"They do not," you say with a smirk.

"Fine, stick 'em in _your_ ice cream then!" she says, digging her spoon straight into the ice cream carton.

"Yeah, maybe we should dip some veggies in here instead of spoons." You slide to the floor so that you can set the carton between you. "This is a pretty fuckin' horrendous lunch."

She sticks her nose in the air as she flops beside you. "I will take my horrendous lunch and eat it with pride!" she says, shoveling more ice cream into her mouth.

You chuckle. This isn't where you want to be, but you'll play silly as long as you can hold Roxy's attention. It keeps the urge in your brain to _do something_ a little quieter too.

You're not watching the clock, but it can't have been more than ten minutes and half a quart of ice cream before you both fall silent as Bro makes an appearance.

It doesn't occur to you how much confidence Bro puts into his step until it's gone, replaced with weariness. "Hey, uh." He pauses, as if he forgot what he was about to say. "I'm driving Rose to a... a center a couple hours away." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder as if the direction means anything. "She might be there a few weeks, but they know how to get her through this shit. They'll help her stay dry afterwards too."

Roxy scrambles to her feet, leaving her spoon on the floor. "I'm going with, right?"

He smiles weakly. "They don't really offer daycare, kiddo, but you can bug her by phone every fuckin' day if you want." He nudges her shoulder. "And I'm not going anywhere until you've got a reliable adult to watch after you again, okay?"

She backs out of Bro's reach, looking lost. She balls her hands and darts around him, making a beeline back towards her mother.

Bro wipes a hand over his face, nudging his shades off to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Coulda gone worse, I guess." He takes a shuddering breath and turns his gaze on you. "You doing okay, Dirk?"

Without Roxy around to keep you on-task, your brain is already booting back into Code Red: Uselessness Detected mode, but you just say, "Don't worry about me, dude." You pop the lid back on the ice cream but make no move to climb off the floor long enough to shove it in the freezer. "I've got the least to worry about of anyone in this damn house."

Bro nods. "Cool, at least someone's keeping their chill," he says. "Christ, I need a smoke." He turns away, already digging out a cigarette as he heads for the back door.

You jam your mouth shut. Your mind blares with guilt that you're sitting on your ass instead of getting shit done (move it, asshole, Bro's irresponsible choices are bad for him, everyone knows the PSAs, weakened taste, shortness of breath, cancer, just fucking do something already). You pull up your knees and press your forehead against them, kneading your fingers into your jeans. You don't dare move for fear the judgmental, manipulative, default impulses take over.

For once you stay out of Bro's way and let him take all the damn time he wants de-stressing.

* * *

"We can't just leave them here alone. If the car ride is too long for them, they can bring a book. I have enough of the damn things."

"You'd rather they see you off as a bunch of nurses lead you away?" Bro asks, his words floating out the open door. "They know how to look out for themselves for five hours, Rose."

"Betcha they think their voices don't carry," Roxy says flatly, resting her chin in her hand as she sits on the porch beside you.

The corner of your lips twitch. "I'm not taking that bet. I'm never warning them about this house's acoustics either."

"Yeah, s'handy as shit for eavesdropping purposes." She glances over her shoulder and clamps her mouth shut, putting a finger over her lips for silence, but you already heard the footsteps behind you.

"I can carry my own fucking bag," Roxy's mom says as she marches outside. She still looks as if she's suffering from a bad cold, her movement weak and her hands trembling no matter how much she tries to hide it under a glaze of cold irritation.

"Hey, I'd love to play it lazy and leave all the lifting to you, but your arms are still shaking, genius," Bro says, carrying a suitcase over his shoulder. He hops off the porch before resting the suitcase on the ground, then kneels in front of you and puts one hand on your head, the other on Roxy's. "So I should be back in time for supper, but if I'm late, y'all know how to work a cereal box. Neither of you leave the house while I'm gone, a'right?"

"Gooot it, Uncle Dave," Roxy says in a tired singsong.

He prods your shoulder. "Dirk. Promise you'll keep out of trouble and stay inside."

Today has been too long for this shit. "Even in an emergency?" you ask like a smartass.

He frowns at you. "Define emergency."

"House fire."

"You can leave if there's a fucking fire."

"You can leave the house if your life is threatened," Roxy's mom says, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms, strategically hiding her shaking hands.

Bro points to her. "What she said."

"I promise I won't leave the house except in event of life-threatening emergency," you say without enthusiasm.

"Also promise you won't light the house on fire as an excuse to leave it."

You give him a hard stare. "Seriously, dude?"

"Dave, he's contumacious, not stupid." Roxy's mom rubs her temple. "Take the damn suitcase to the car if you insist on carrying it."

Bro sighs and ruffles your hair before straightening. "Yeah, whatever, Ms. Dictionary."

She steps forward as if to follow him, then pauses at the edge of the porch. She glances down at you and Roxy, the emotions running over her face so complex that they mask her feelings just as well as Bro's poker face.

She takes a deep breath as if she's about to say something. Instead she kneels and wraps her arms around Roxy, only wincing a little when Roxy clamps to her in response. "I'm sorry, Roxy," she whispers in Roxy's ear.

You turn your head away to give them some semblance of privacy, until you feel a clammy hand rest over yours. Roxy's mom offers you a small nod, which you return, one fucked up Strilonde to another. (She might have gotten her predisposition for alcohol from Roxy, but mixing in your genes is probably what fucked her over so she can't quit as easily as Roxy did, because even your DNA sucks.)

She holds that position for longer than necessary, with Roxy in one arm and your hand under hers, before she gathers herself up and leaves.

It takes less than thirty seconds before the vehicle is lost to sight in the foliage.

* * *

"So. Earth kinda sucks."

"Yeah," you say. "Little bit." It doesn't really matter how you got to lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling with Roxy. Sometimes you just gotta go with your instincts and sulk on the ground.

"The food is gross, the air smells funny, and we can't even keep proper hold of our kid-parents," Roxy says with an exaggerated sigh.

"The food's not that bad."

"It is _so_ bad. Ice cream is just a special exception." She sits up with a frustrated yell. "Dammit, but we can't just roll around in our sad feels all the time! This is the world Calliope is protectin' just for us and we're s'posed to enjoy it!" She leans over you and grabs you by your shoulders. "Let's get shit fixed with Jake!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barring emergency, I won't make y'all wait too long to resolve this cliffhanger. I'm really frazzled right now because my primary computer is currently broken, but I have a spare laptop (it's cheap and slow, but it works for small stuff) and the next chapter is almost ready, so I should be able to make an update by 4/13 at the latest! (PS: Please take this moment to back up your stuff if you don't regularly do so already. This chapter was made possible by uploading my docs to the cloud every time I wrote a new chunk.)
> 
> By the way, I should confess... I have not actually touched my inbox (or my Tumblr) in... a long time....... I'm sorry about that. OTL I wanted to be the type of person who could reply to every comment I got, but I am shy and burnt out so very hard on online social interaction and now my overflowing inbox looks terrifying.
> 
> I know a generic response isn't the same, but since I don't know when I'll find the energy to delve through my inbox... To folks who have left nice comments: Thank you for your support! I'm glad you're engaged enough that you want to interact with my work!
> 
> To folks pointing out typos or continuity errors: D'OH, thanks for alerting me and I'm sorry for not keeping up with comments better or else I'd fix that right away!
> 
> To everyone: Thanks for reading!!! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Lastly, thanks to not_you for often advising me when I need advice on writing sex or drugs or ~~rock &roll~~ alcohol, for beta reading this chapter despite not giving a single crap about Homestuck, and for saving me from the big spider on my bed.


	10. Chapter 10

Your blood goes so cold that your veins freeze. It's a fuckin' wonder that Roxy can stand to touch your frosted skin. "Excuse me?"

"You helped me with my mom, so I'ma help you with your boyfriend probs!" She tugs you up and plops a computer into her lap from her sylladex. "What was the last sour note you and Jake left off on?" she asks, her fingers already flying over the keyboard and opening Pesterchum's login screen.

You resist the urge to shudder. "Christ, probably whatever nasty shit we said to each other in Trickster Mode."

She goes still, then turns to stare at you. "You haven't Pestered him since Sburb?"

"Why would I have?"

"Gee, I dunno, because you're _friends?_ I figured you two just kept jammin' your feet up your mouths whenever you attempted amends, not that you hadn't talked even _once!_ " She smacks her face with both palms to punctuate her sentences. "Stupid boys! Stupid, stupid fucking boys!"

You inch away, both because you don't like the direction she's pushing you and because she's not entirely wrong to throw that exasperation at you. "Hey, Jane's in on this too."

"She can be an honorary boy today!" Roxy yells to the ceiling. Her shoulders slump with a tired huff. "Jeezus, Dirk, at least I tried to pry my mom from her booze afore I gave up and wallowed in misery. All _you_ needta type is three li'l words that even my ass could manage at my drunkest: I'm sorry."

"That's two words."

"Oh, excuse meee for countin' the contraction, you nit-picky subject changer!" She shoves the laptop into your arms and glares at you. "Message him right now, Strider!"

You refuse to flinch back or cower or anything that damages your coolkid exterior. She probably already knows you're terrified anyway. "I can't just drop this on him out of nowhere."

She crosses her arms. "I will have none of them excuses! It's your penalty for not doing this sooner on your own!"

It's not often you sense that you're backed into a corner while a predator paces in front of you, but there's no way Roxy is letting you escape this. "I need to at least warn Jane before I open this can of worms and coat her in secondhand bug juice." Maybe you can at least delay the inevitable long enough to think up a greeting that is even a quarter of the groveling Jake deserves to read.

Roxy puffs up her cheeks and gives you the stink eye, but she says, "I'ma allow you ten minutes 'cos I'm a very generous dictator. After that, I steal your shades and tape 'em to the ceiling 'til you apologize to poor Jakey."

TT: In other words, I better take care of Jake before Roxy gets tired of waiting for you to snap out of your pathetic human fears.   
TT: You stay the fuck out of this or I'll let her tape you to the ceiling regardless of what happens next.

You could pester your friends via your shades instead of Roxy's laptop, but logging into an actual computer feels one step removed from sharing with Hal. Besides, it lets Roxy see that you're typing without her peering up close and popping your personal bubble to check for colored text in the tinted glass.

You take a deep breath. You've put this off too long anyway. The only way out of this now is if Jake's green username goes offline. (You should stop praying for that.)

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--

TT: Jane, we gotta talk to Jake.   
GG: Oh.   
GG: Well, I know, but... :(   
GG: Must we?   
TT: We must.   
TT: I realize the irony of saying this given our de-aged states, but we need to grow up and deal with our problems like big kids.   
GG: Yes, but... I don't know, I'd so hoped that maybe he'd contact us first, so we would never have to take the plunge ourselves.   
TT: We both know that's not gonna happen.   
TT: If we ever want to make up with him, we've got to make the first move. And if he doesn't want to talk, he can tell us.

You're justifying the logic to yourself just as much as to her. You're also a giant asshole, pretending that you're half this rational by choice, but it's not like Jane needs to know that this plan isn't your idea.

GG: Shuckbusters. You're probably right, as much as I hate to admit it.   
GG: I just need to gather my nerves first.   
GG: Oh, that just sounds like more excuses, doesn't it? Ten minutes! Give me ten minutes and then you may prod me and guilt me about my cowardice to your heart's content!   
TT: Let me go first. If he's still pissed, I'll take the brunt of his well-deserved anger.   
TT: I'll let you know if he's willing to talk to you, provided he'll let me get that far.   
GG: I really shouldn't let you do that for me. :(   
TT: It's cool. Your reason for avoiding him is more legit than mine.   
TT: I've already made shit as bad as it can get, so I have nothing to lose here.   
GG: What are you pestering me for if you didn't want me taking the plunge with you?   
TT: I don't know. Emotional support, I guess. An early warning in case it explodes in my face.   
TT: Procrastination.   
GG: Hoo hoo, we are a mess, aren't we?   
GG: Well, whatever happens, Dirk, I'll be here for you afterwards.   
TT: Thanks.   
TT: Guess I'd better practice what I preach, huh?   
GG: Good luck! I'm rooting for you!!   
TT: See you on the other side.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering golgathasTerror [GT] \--

TT: I know I already talk too much, but I really need to tell you something, so please give me a chance to bombard your chat window one last time. If you don't want to hear it, then just block me and I promise I'll leave you alone.   
TT: I fucked up. I royally fucked up. My fucking up was so royal that there will be a coronation tomorrow in its honor, followed shortly by an assassination.   
TT: I shouldn't have pushed you as hard as I did or put that much pressure on you. I shouldn't have been so fucking needy or talked your ear off or failed to notice when you were bored out of your goddamn mind.   
TT: I shouldn't have panicked and dialed it up to eleven when I did notice.   
TT: I should have been better at confronting my AI when he was toying with you. I should have handled everything with Hal differently instead of wussing out because it would have meant introspection I didn't want to do.   
TT: You have every right to never want to speak to me again, but I just wanted you to know that I'm fucking sorry.   
TT: You're my best friend and I shouldn't have hurt you like that.   
TT: I'm so sorry, Jake.   
GT: Now hang on one dagnab minute!   
GT: What the fucking blazes are YOU apologizing for?   
GT: Im the one who was so confounded by human interaction that i was positively dreadful to anyone who didnt have the mind to tell me to go fuck an extra prickly cactus!   
TT: What?   
TT: Jake, oh my god, please tell me you haven't been blaming yourself this whole damn time.   
GT: Why wouldnt i? The whole doggone blowup was my own wretched fault!   
GT: Instead of confronting you like a proper man i hid away from my problems and left you holding the bag.   
TT: Jake.   
GT: I just mindlessly lollygagged my way through all that romance business without understanding what you or poor jane were going through. And when the going got tough i hightailed it like a chicken liver.   
GT: I wasnt sensitive to either of your feelings and i wouldnt blame anyone if you were done with me for good.   
GT: So if anyone should be apologizing its me. Im the one who wrecked our friendship by misreading every gosh damned word you and jane and probably even my friendly guide of a sprite ever said to me!   
TT: You've been avoiding me and Jane these past six months on Pesterchum because you thought you were the one who fucked up here.   
TT: Jake, you beautiful, tenderhearted moron.   
GT: Well yes i   
GT: Er   
GT: You erm...   
GT: Did you just imply you WERENT pissed with me?   
TT: God no. What do you think I spilled my guts for? Our fucking mess of a relationship was on me, dude, not you.   
GT: But i was such a social misfit i just thought... maybe i wasnt cut out for the whole romance business. Or the whole friendship business. Or the whole PEOPLE business.   
GT: Its so much hassle with such high risk! And no one deserves my chaos. Especially not my bosom friends. :(   
TT: Jake, you may have chaos, but I AM chaos.   
TT: Do you know how many times I've given my bro a heart attack since we landed on Earth?   
TT: He's a grownass adult who defeated the ICP and faced off against the batterwitch. And I overwhelm him.   
TT: You didn't stand a chance against my bullshit, dude.   
GT: Im sure i contributed at least a LITTLE bullshit to our hullabaloo!   
TT: I can't deny you could have handled it better, but c'mon, English, I'd cornered you into a new and shitty situation. You get some leeway on dropping that ball.   
TT: You don't have to shut yourself off from all romance and friendship and human society in goddamn general just because you bit off more than you could chew and choked.   
GT: You mean you still want to be friends? Even though i hurt you?   
TT: Jesus, dude, it'd hurt worse if I lost your friendship. What's important here is whether you can put up with my presence anymore.   
GT: Christopher columbus! Of course i can put up with my best bro!!!   
GT: You dont even know how much ive wished we could just start over like we truly were thirteen again. Before all the drama started you know?   
TT: Yeah. I can relate.   
TT: Fuck, I feel like an idiot right now.   
GT: What for?   
TT: For avoiding you this damn long because I was scared of suffocating you again. We could have cleared this shit up months ago if I had half the spine I pretend to have.   
GT: Balderdash! I was the one avoiding you. Ive made a bad habit of that as of late im afraid. :( I do hope youll forgive me.   
TT: You'll have to forgive me first.   
GT: Now lets not get entrenched in THAT infinite loop!   
GT: I forgive you then!    
GT: Ill admit that you and especially your consarn auto responder had me tearing out my hair on more than a few occasions but he without sin must throw the first stone etc etc etc and i am most assuredly not without sin here.   
GT: And even if i were without fault id much rather be friends again anyway!   
TT: That about sums it up.   
TT: I could rake you over the coals if I really wanted to make myself feel better about my own mistakes, but what's even the fucking point of lording your mistakes over you at this point?   
GT: I suppose so i dont repeat my stupid flubs in the future? Heightened awareness and all.   
TT: I think we're both familiar with our fuck-ups.   
TT: You're self-aware enough that you don't want to make them into a habit. That's all I care about.   
GT: Is that all there is to it? Were bosom friends again?   
GT: After months of avoiding each other this feels far too fucking easy. Im waiting on the catch!   
TT: No catch, at least on my end.   
TT: Though can I ask you something about what went wrong? Or should we just move on?   
GT: No no if somethings bothering you then please fire away! I dont want any more surprises from keeping our yaps shut!!   
TT: Did you only agree to date me because I cornered you into it?   
GT: Well...   
GT: Hm...   
GT: At the time i thought so but you know... with all this time to think it over and talk to my wise ol grandma im not so sure ive been honest with myself.   
GT: I figured if you wanted to date me well... thats that then! I dont have the dexterity to outmaneuver a strider! And surely a pair of kindred spirits would make an even better pair of lovers! Except...   
GT: Even knowing that you were likely to make a move soon i wasnt about to tell jane no if she had just asked first. I wouldnt have told roxy no either! Great fucking horn spoon im beginning to wonder if i would have told calliopes brute of a brother to sign me right up for some green skull smooching if hed courted me!   
GT: I dont think i have any damned idea what i want out of a relationship. So i just went with the flow of whatever everyone else wanted and convinced myself that i didnt have a choice in the matter.   
GT: And that blew up in my face but HOW.   
TT: So how pointless would it be to ask if we ever had anything between us or if it was all just a farce?   
GT: Im afraid the only honest answer i could cough up is a solid i dont know. :(   
GT: Im not sure if my feelings towards you were actually romantic or just a very confused friendship. I wish i understood my own noggin better than that but there it is.   
GT: I certainly care for you. I just cant tell if it never evolved past friendship or if i got overwhelmed in the throes of actual passion.   
GT: Embarrassingly enough when we were at the height of our row i made the snafu of mistaking janes crush on me as a crush on you! And i was all ready to back down and let her have her fair shake at you.   
TT: Wait, seriously?   
GT: Yes im dreadfully sorry about that. I guess i was just looking for any opening to bow out of our whole love hexagon madness.   
GT: Though just between you and me im sure you two would have made a swell couple.   
TT: Jake, I'm fucking gay.   
GT: What? Are you??? I knew you were into fellas but that didnt necessarily mean you turned a blind eye to the dames.   
TT: I've never felt comfortable with the labels, but we're all in the 21st century now, so I might as well deal with it. I'm 100% homo-gay over here.   
TT: If Jane had been crushing on me, she would have hit a dead end pretty fast.   
TT: You want to talk embarrassing, there's a non-zero chance I pined after you because you were the only human dude I had access to.   
TT: I guess we both have some self-reflection on schedule before we can dip our toes back in the dating pool.   
GT: So long as we can go back to being pals in the meantime i wont mind a break from romantic shenanigans in the slightest!   
TT: Deal.   
GT: *Offers his good bro a conciliatory hug.*   
TT: But I'm not RPing a hug.   
GT: Rats. *Hugs anyway.*   
TT: Save it for IRL. We're all due for a post-game reunion anyway.   
GT: Then ill keep a spare hug handy for next time we meet!   
GT: Er wait by ALL do you mean...   
TT: You, me, and both the girls.   
TT: Jane's worried about you too, you know.   
GT: She is??   
TT: Yeah, she's been just as much of a coward as we have, convinced you hate her for all the shit that went down last April.   
GT: What?! But that's a load of poppycock! I could never hate poor sweet jane!   
GT: Surely she must be sore with me though?   
TT: Only as much as I am.   
TT: I bet you'd make her day if you pestered her, dude. You two can have your own awkward apologyfest.   
GT: Then i must vamoose to her chat window at once!   
GT: Brb while i focus on clearing things up with the lady!   
TT: Take all the time you need. I understand shit's sensitive.

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

GG: YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO WARN ME BEFORE HE PESTERED ME!!   
TT: You'll be fine, Jane.   
GG: STRIDERRRRRRRRR!

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--

You let out a breath that's one part sigh, one part laugh as you slump back against the floor. "You win. Boys are stupid."

"I know, right?" Roxy says chipperly, looking up from her phone. She crawls over and tugs her laptop back from you. "Well, stupid, ya aren't sulking in a corner, so I'ma assume that means it went A-OK and you were worried for nothin' and we can all be friends again instead of awkward."

"I guess." You rest an arm over your forehead. "We both laid claim to causing our shitshow and put on a production of trying to outdo the other's apology."

"Aw, I woulda paid to see that. Maybe Hal will sell me the log." Her hands dash over her keyboard and trackpad. "Speakin' of, now that we've got task number one out of the way, time for Roxy's good deed number two." She shoves the laptop back at you, having replaced Pesterchum's window with a text document written in gibberish.

"The hell is this?" you ask, though you're already picking up on the pattern of this nonsense.

"It's a phoneme list!" She tilts her head, pursing her lips. "Phoneme? Am I sayin' that right? I've only seen it spelled, not said out loud," she says under her breath, then perks up. "Anyways, it's a list of sounds you gotta record into the computer so Li'l Hal can talk proper Dirk-like once Ms. English builds him a robo body."

"Hal's using you to rope me into recording him a voicebank."

"Yup." She drops a cheap USB microphone next to you from her sylladex. "It's a hella weak recording studio, but better than ordering fancy supplies and missing our opportunity. Hop to it before Uncle Dave gets home and breaks our sweet silence into oblivion. Chop, chop!"

You hold in a sigh. You hold in a lot of reactions, but the sigh takes first priority. "Give me a moment with Hal."

TT: This is too much goddamn work for a project I've washed my hands of.   
TT: It's every phoneme I'll need if I'm going to speak English in an intelligible manner.   
TT: I also included phonemes for a Japanese voicebank.   
TT: Fuck you.   
TT: You can adopt Hatsune Miku's voicebank if you want to borrow a human's voice so badly.   
TT: Zatsu a gureeto aidia, buro. Hera aironikku.   
TT: Fine, the accent would get really fucking old after ten minutes.   
TT: Use Microsoft Sam.   
TT: You put love and care into Sawtooth and Squarewave's voices.   
TT: Sawtooth and Squarewave aren't fucking sociopaths. They deserved a little more care.   
TT: Sawtooth wandered the post-apocalyptic wasteland in search of rap battles. The dude's at least a little unhinged.   
TT: He's probably lost in Venezuela right now, learning to rap en español with the sweet non-generic voice you bestowed upon him despite his shortcomings.   
TT: I didn't give him my voice.   
TT: You didn't give him your brain either.   
TT: A robotic body will never come close to matching the body I remember from our shared memories. I'll never have skin or a dope hairdo or weirdass orange eyes. Is it so much to ask my creator and former self that I at least regain my voice?

He's manipulating you. You know he's manipulating you, because it's the same shit you pull on other people. You fucking know that, yet you still ask, "So how many phonemes am I supposed to record exactly?"

"Uhhh..." Roxy chews her lip. "I think the English list has something like seven hundred of 'em?"

You rub your temple. "Let me grab some fucking water."

* * *

"How soon 'til I can call Mom?" Roxy says, asking the important questions instead of letting shit like greetings hold her back.

"Tomorrow." Bro kicks the front door shut and tousles her hair. "Give her a day to settle in, yeah?" He has a decent surface-level poker face going, but you've lived with him long enough to recognize the weary edge to his voice, the droop in his step. If nothing else, you smell fresh cigarette smoke lingering on his clothes when he passes you.

Roxy crosses her arms and huffs. "I am impatient and motherless! I get some fuckin' leeway," she says, following him. "How soon 'til she comes home?"

He slumps into the crook of the couch. "August sometime. Shit, probably September just to be safe, with a case as nuts as hers and all the..." He trails off as Roxy's frown shifts into a sulk. He clears his throat and pats the spot next to him in invite. "Hey, that's not long. I'm like the expert of killing time. I'll show you how to swan dive into your hobbies and stay under until you forget what day it is. Unless it's books, 'cos that's a solo act that doesn't convert to a duet so easily."

She flops next to him, leaning her head back to peek at him sideways. "Ya know you're talkin' to a Lalonde, right? Books are fuckin' sweet."

"She also games." You weren't planning to butt in -- they'll hit the same page on their own sooner or later and you're trying to rest your voice -- but you can't bite your tongue fast enough. At least it only takes those three words to shove them in the right direction of a mutual interest.

"Yeah, obviously my Nintendo 64 is the shit too," Roxy says, kicking her feet. "You game too, right, Uncle Dave?"

"Hell yeah, I game," he says, hooking his arm over the back of the couch. "I'm more about cheap Xbox shit like Tony Hawk and movie tie-ins, but I can raise my standards for some Smash Bros now and then."

"Whaaat? Movie tie-ins are five kinds of broken, ya weirdo," Roxy says with a weak giggle.

"Exactly. They've got the best crazyass glitches. I spend more time fucking up the graphics and falling out of bounds than trying to beat the game. It's hella inspiration for new JPEG-compressed merch."

Roxy leans away from Bro, wrinkling her nose and narrowing her eyes at him. "You stay away from my save files, Daveglitch."

He presses a knuckle over his mouth to hide a smirk. "A'right, I'll dial back on corrupting the whole cartridge and only drop Mario through the floor a couple times, just for you."

"What a fuckin' gentleman," she says dryly.

Now that you have them locked into a plan of action, you can probably leave them to their own devices; you're determined to ease Bro's babysitting burden in more ways than one. "Sounds like a plan," you say, turning away. You could slip away undetected, but you part by giving them a gentle nudge to follow through on the nerding out, just to be safe. "You guys set that shit up and I'll set dinner up."

Bro straightens as if he's half a second from following you. "Whoa, what? The housework's not on you, bro."

So the quiet exit was the better idea. You just shrug. "Throwing food on a plate isn't exactly heavy physical labor, dude," you say, unable to hide the croak in your voice this time.

"I mean I guess, but..." Bro frowns. "Kid, are you okay?" He taps at his own throat. "You're not coming down with a cold for real, are you?"

You swallow to give your voice a fighting chance of sounding natural. "Nah, probably just dehydrated," you say, sounding at least closer to dried out instead of raspy. "Don't lose your chill over it."

You leave before he can interrogate you further. The voicebank's not a secret, per se, but you're not proud to have lost your voice in the effort to pass it on to Li'l Hal.

TT: You fucking owe me.   
TT: You already owe me for not taking the reins with Jake months ago, so we'll call it even.   
TT: No one owes you shit for the rare moments you decide not to be an asshole behind our backs.   
TT: Do you want help cooking something edible or do you want to lord your apparent superiority over me until you burn down the kitchen?   
TT: It makes no difference to me. Your weak attempts at confidence don't intimidate me, and I'm not the one who suffers if you fail to produce nourishment.   
TT: You're right. Bro suffers.   
TT: So how are you going to prevent that?   
TT: Open the fucking cupboards and I'll run our stock against recipes simple enough for you to follow.   
TT: Even if this is a woefully domestic waste of my computing abilities.

You could just throw together sandwiches, but for one, that's fucking boring, and for another, that misses the point of abandoning Roxy to Bro's care. Bro excels at ignoring problems, which for once is a useful vice if she can pick it up from him. Your problem-obsessed presence won't help that effort. And maybe your voice will return during an extra half hour of food prep.

You probably have less cooking experience than even Bro does, but you know how to wield a knife and you have a perfectionist computer guiding you, so it probably won't end in disaster. You don't actually care where Hal's instructions are leading; it's not poison and it doesn't have Roxy's hated peas in it, so it doesn't matter what you make. It's some kind of soup though, that much becomes obvious.

Once you reach the hands-off "cover and simmer" stage, you slump into a chair. It's like an entire week shoved itself into a single day and there are still a few more fucking hours to go.

You could use a break to space out and stop thinking, just for a few minutes, but the downtime only makes you restless. If you have time to sit on your ass and stare at the wall, you have time to find new ways to make yourself useful.

What if Bro drops the ball while you twiddle your thumbs in here? What if something goes wrong that you could have prevented? What if you let Roxy down?

It's like Hal's whispering all of his most judgemental, manipulative bullshit direct into your brain, except his voice is identical to yours, so in the end it's just your bullshit. Worst-case scenarios crash through your mind like waves, drowning out rational thoughts, until you shove out of your seat and make for the door.

You step out of the kitchen and come to an abrupt halt.

Half of the living room is coated in white bed sheets. They're strewn over the furniture like a makeshift circus tent held aloft by the backs of chairs. The TV screen glows through the sheets, accompanied by a chipper video game soundtrack.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck you and the turtle shell you rode in on, Yoshi!" Roxy shouts from the midst of the tent.

Sounds like your expertise was not, in fact, needed.

You still push aside a flap so you can climb inside and investigate this unforeseen situation, crawling over a floor of pillows en route to the TV. You clear your throat but remain disappointed in your voice's quality as you ask, "The hell's with this?"

Bro glances back at you before returning his attention to a clunky N64 controller. "Yeah, s'not every day I play Mario Kart with a Tasmanian devil, but don't knock it 'til you've tried it."

"Excuse you?" Roxy says with a scoff. "I'm a very classy lady, I'll have you know!"

"You could make monocles pop from half a mile away, li'l lady. Posh old men around the state erupt in choruses of 'well, I'll say' without even knowing why every time you cuss out Donkey Kong."

You settle crosslegged between them and poke the fabric ceiling inches above you. "And the hell's with the sheets?"

Roxy lounges back as her character crosses the finish line and snags first place, with Yoshi half a second behind her. "Uncle Dave happens to be an experienced blanket architect and passed down this ancient art to me!" She waves an arm at the white walls. "Welcome to Fort Lalonde."

"Fort Strider," Bro says without pause.

"Fort Lalonder!"

"Dudette," he says, setting aside his controller and abandoning his character to wallow off-track, "if you're gonna smash our names together, at least do it right and call it Strilonde."

She holds her head high as she says with utmost authority, "Fort Daxy!"

Bro slaps a hand over his face in a futile attempt to muffle his voice as he cracks the fuck up.

"Who's the queen of breaking the infamous Strider poker face?" Roxy points both index fingers at herself. "That'd be me, the great and powerful Queen Roxy. No need to bow."

You smirk and rest your chin in your hand. "Dave's carapacian buddy would be fuckin' appalled that you're establishing a monarchy, Queen Rox."

She gasps. "Oh, shiiit, I wouldn't wanna insult poor Mr. Mayor!" She sets her hands on her hips and straightens. "I'm the _president_ of breaking poker faces."

"The fuck are you two on?" Bro clears his throat, getting his case of the giggles back under lock and key. "It's not often I fall outside of an in-joke that directly involves me."

You exchange an uneasy glance with Roxy to confirm that neither of you know how to condense Sburb's NPCs into a bite-sized explanation. There's a reason you haven't brought up Dave's mute friend before. "Long story," you say. "Your alternate self made some weird friendships that included a dude who's got some serious hate for monarchies."

"Which is why we must solemnly swear to never don crowns," Roxy says with a nod, pressing her palm against her chest as if in vow. "Not that we'd ever have that opportunity, or ginormous enough egos to go through with it, but ya know. Principle of the thing. Monarchies be nasty."

Bro shrugs. "I'm not exactly sold on democracy anymore, but I'll totally act as witness on this monarchy ban."

"Oh." Roxy lowers her hand, looking sheepish. "I guess presidents aren't always so fun either."

"Not when you've got a voting populace that's too stupid or trollish to reject a couple of malicious entertainers, nope," he says, his voice almost breathy enough to qualify as a sigh.

She nudges his knee and shoots him a small smile. "Hey, at least you were around to be a sword of reason, eh?"

Bro grunts, otherwise giving no indicator that he even heard her when he should be soaking in the limelight she just offered him.

She tilts her head, then her eyes go wide in realization. "Oh shiiit, are you gonna hafta kill those ICP assholes again since they un-died?"

He turns his face away too slow to hide a grimace. "Jesus Christ, no."

"But we can't just let gross clown super villains run around unchecked." She looks between you and Bro. "Can we?"

He slides his hand up and under his shades to rub at his temple. "Let's just operate on the assumption that they won't cause trouble without an alien overlord to pull their strings," he mutters.

You frown. There are a lot of arguments against rekindling an old fight you might buy -- his sister gave the all-clear, he has other inside sources, he received a surrender, just to name a few -- but you don't deal in assumptions when shit's this dangerous.

Roxy beats you to the punch with a much more succinct if overly simple argument of, "But they're the bad guys!"

He sighs, glancing over his hand at the two of you. "I know you two lived in a post-apocalyptic water world where you mighta missed out on basic social etiquette, but trust me on this one: killing people is pretty strongly frowned upon."

"And if they try for the White House again?" you ask, your scratchy voice working to your advantage as it wallpapers over your childish cadence.

Roxy wrinkles her nose. "Yeah, preeetty sure causing the apocalypse is frowned upon too, just a li'l."

"Then I don't fucking know. I don't want to think about it," Bro says, sounding weary. "I'm sure as hell not gonna be the asshole to restart that bloodbath right after history got it mopped up like an overworked time traveling maid. I kinda like a sparkling clean bathroom. Otherwise you track blood onto the carpets and then everything's stained because your hands are already too red to clean it up without just making it worse."

You press your mouth into a thin line, fighting the desperate urge to argue, to insist that one room of blood is better than a waterlogged planet. It's the same argument you've repeated wordlessly with him every time you initiate a strife and he refuses to do more than disarm you.

Roxy lowers her gaze and chews on her lower lip. "Jeezus, that's a real morbid metaphor."

If she'd pressed further, you'd have an excuse to continue this cycle, but now you're without accomplice. You should drop it, and you should push him, and neither "should" wins out against the other, leaving you in a mental stalemate. You just want Bro prepared for whatever the future holds, no matter how dangerous; he wants to leave his sword sheathed like an idiot.

It's like his irrational fear of puppets all over again, except this weakness isn't constant across universes. Bro hates fighting, while Dave...

You frown. Dave fought alongside everyone else, but what gave you the idea he _liked_ it?

He couldn't stand the sound of crashing steel. He told you that in confidence and yet you never questioned the toll it took on him to charge into battle. (Maybe that's why he acted as someone else's shield in the end, despite wielding a sword.)

In the midst of a frantic and messy endgame finale, Dave was the first to call timeout on attacking unknown variables. He's the entire reason you had Spades Slick hacking at Lord English with a goddamn crowbar during the final battle, for fuck's sake. The rest of you saw a hostile carapacian and reached for your weapons, but Dave wouldn't fight a guy he had no beef with.

At the time, you'd parsed his choice as a considered strategy; while the rest of you played the role of paranoid chumps so trigger happy that you almost attacked an NPC whose only interest was in taking down a common enemy, Dave's call for a truce skipped you a pointless (and potentially lethal) skirmish and gained you a valuable ally.

It hadn't struck you before that Dave might have been motivated by conflict avoidance. It doesn't sit well with you, the same way it doesn't sit well that Bro likewise dodges conflict until he's backed into a corner.

There's not time to explore every facet of this epiphany and come to a solid conclusion. For now, you should just get off Bro's case.

"You okay, dude?" you ask cautiously.

"Hey, I'm chill." Bro straightens with sudden energy, as if he just noticed that he's showing weakness in front of the kids. "Let's just talk about something else. Like Mario Kart and its absurd notion that a banana peel could stop a car in its tracks. Or how Yoshi is basically Mario's horse and here he is driving a fuckin' vehicle."

You go silent because you're not ready to shoot the shit like he needs. It's hard to crack jokes about red-uniformed plumbers when you're wading through angst.

"Umm..." Roxy scoots closer to him. "Weeeeell, if we're changin' subjects anyways, I been meaning to ask... Can y'maybe tell me about a time my mom was totes awesome?"

He relaxes and throws an arm over Roxy's shoulder. "That barely narrows down our options, but I can work with that. You ever hear about how she tamed a giant fuckin' sea monster?"

"Wait, for reals?"

He grins at her excitement. "Yeah, it was short-lived but pretty dope."

TT: Get your ass back to the stove.

The kitchen timer goes off three seconds after Hal's message flashes over your shades, a double beckoning to leave this heartfelt happy shit in Roxy's capable hands.

You slink away, letting Bro's metaphor comparing sea monsters to fresh sashimi fade behind you. Your brain's cries to go back and interfere are only a quiet whisper now that you have a proper task to throw your weight into.

You had your doubts about Hal's cooking assistance, but the soup isn't half-bad when you sample it. (You wouldn't blindly serve Hal's recipe to a stray dog, let alone people you care about.) Of more interest, the broth coats your raw throat, soothing the lingering pain that accompanies your overworked voice.

It might be coincidence. Most warm liquid relieves throat pain. Hal doesn't care about you enough to secretly guide you through creating a home remedy.

Even if he did, you don't know where to begin addressing it. You stay quiet and so does he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out my primary computer's hard drive is officially toast, which means it's time for another PSA: please go back up any files that would cause you distress if you lost them. If possible, back those files up so they're in three or more locations (e.g., in an external hard drive, spare computer, thumb drive, memory card, cloud storage, email attachment sent to yourself... just whatever is available to you). My hard drive failed very suddenly despite being pretty new hardware, so if I weren't obsessive about backing up my writing, this chapter could have easily been lost to the void.
> 
> Back to business as usual:
> 
> Phooie, when I started this fic, I figured canon would have its own version of a Dirk/Jake reconciliation scene and I could pass the buck to it, but welp, instead I had to wing it. At least I'd already done a close read to analyze their relationship a while back and could work with those old notes. I feel like Jake's inclination to date the first person who asked is often overlooked, so I decided to have wise ol' Jade help him dig that to the surface off-page.
> 
> And then I gave Jake a couple of dialogue quirks from Jo March and Anne Shirley because this is maybe the chapter where I let some self-indulgent bullshit slip in. I did rein myself in though! I had a BIG AL joke in place of Microsoft Sam but I was good and edited it out for being too much obscure Vocaloid shit!
> 
> ~~Daveglitch? What? Roxy just comes up with wacky nicknames, she's such a creative scamp, what are you looking at me for~~


End file.
